Philosophy and Sushi
by Somebodee
Summary: Izaya Orihara meets a peculiar model at a sushi restaurant. He takes an interest in her.
1. The First Nibble

Ask any Ikebukuro local about where to find the best sushi, and nine times out of 10 they'd answer Russia Sushi.

Managed by a Russian ex-Spetsnaz trooper, unorthodox recipes such as borscht and pizza sushi persuade customers to come back for more. Reasonable prices mean people from all walks of life can enjoy Denis' well-made dishes; a policeman sits across a Yellow Scarf, CEO's exchange glances with students at dinner, and different people strike up conversations with one another.

"_Gotta hand it to Denis-sama, his crab meat's the best around here._"Nothing filled Izaya Orihara's stomach like two Siberian sushi bowls during work break. Add some _teriyaki _sauce, and his tongue would taste ambrosia's flavor he wouldn't get anywhere else.

Taking a bite off his deep-fried sushi, Izaya noticed the girl next to him, staring at her own. It looked as if she was scanning her meal like a scientist with a microscope. "For someone of your stature to eat simple, homemade sushi, this world brings me new surprises every day."

"What'd I have to do to be you?" After a few seconds, she threw the roll at her mouth, gulping it whole. Engrossed in her sushi, she didn't notice Izaya, or anybody for that matter until he commented on her tastes.

He swore he's seen her style before. The girl's blonde hair was in pigtails, and her body exhaled expensive perfume. Hours and hours of makeup slathered her face. Her black tank top gave away her pale, white arms. Had her miniskirt been shorter, she'd be arrested for indecent exposure.

"Blend in and be grateful for the little things, that's a start," Izaya said. "By the way, are you familiar with the Ganguro girls, by chance? I bet you might be besties with them."

"Ugh. Posers, the lot of them." Six words greeted him immediately, before munching on her next sushi.

"I take it; you have strong opinions when it comes to fashion sense." He then pointed at the man not too far from them. Eating his venison sushi, the bald, burly fellow wore nothing but a white tank top and jeans. Soy sauce dripped from his two brass knuckles. "What can you say about his?"

Taking a glance at the thug, the girl leaned in near Izaya. "Hmmm, realtalk," She whispered. "He has much class as a country bumpkin swimming in cow shit for weeks." Her voice, though faint, dripped like acid corroding his eardrums. "The most well-dressed he'll ever be is on a funeral home."

He thought she would stop there, but she continued. "You know what? Right now, I can go to his place, and tell that to him. He'll land a hook in my pretty, centerfold face, but I'll also tell him I just repeated your words."

Izaya heard the girl's breaths grow heavier as she nudged him, directing his attention to everyone else. When her whispering used to feel like acid, it transformed to honey that moment. "Most of 'em want a piece of the guy. So, once we're done, they'll, like, take out their lead pipes and baseball bats-"

"You want to try out Siberian sushi? I've got extra yen." Izaya cut in, leaving the girl's ramblings hanging. "Simon-_sama_!Four Siberian sushi bowls, please."

"Four Siberian sushi coming right up!" Simon immediately ran to the ingredients drawer to get _nori _leaves for his order. "_Пять минут!_"

"_Спасибо_, dear Simon-_sama_. " Izaya quickly responded. Ever the reliable server, he's confident he would come to their place in a jiffy. He's never seen Simon miss an order from him, or anyone in Russia Sushi.

"Yeah!..." A soft giggle came out of the girl, apparently satisfied with her ramblings. "Sorry, I tend to say weird stuff when my tummy's rumbling."

"_The way she voiced it, she was itching to do it." _That observation stayed in the back of Izaya's mind when he asked for an extra serving of Siberian sushi. "_Too bad no one else heard her. She better know some self-defense, should anyone hear." _With this in mind,Izaya produced a Post-It note and pain from his back pocket to jot down what she'll say next.

"Also, what make and fabric is this coat? I can send in a good word to Vogue Japan for it." The girl said, caressing Izaya's furry sleeves with her long, red nails. "When they see me wear it, it'll be in every #OOTD on Instagram. Who knows? Maybe we'll walk down Tokyo Fashion Week together."

_Vogue Japan, Gyaru-inspired outfit, strawberry blonde pigtails… _The puzzle pieces arranged themselves. Izaya knew almost all of the gyarus in the Ikebukuro area, but none carried the style so flawlessly like the girl. Her demeanor so far suggested confidence in her fashion sense unlike any other and marked disdain for plebeians who failed to meet her standards. Tone down her bizarre fixations, and she'd pass off as the _gyaru_ queen around these parts.

"I should know who you are, but I'm not Izaya Orihara the preteen girl who follows fashion divas religiously," Izaya replied. "My sister Mairu is."

"Then you're missing out on _a lot_. Junko Enoshima, by the way." The girl said, flipping her pigtail. "You said something about a sister; what's she like?

"Mairu's irrelevant right now." Izaya lets out a small laugh. "She's at home, bopping her head to those Korean boy bands nowadays."

Junko twiddled around locks of her hair, her pinky finger shaky. "All I'll say is: the less said about mine, the better. _Juuuuust_ like the sushi I had earlier: bland, derivative, makes you wanna throw it to the garbage disposal and leave it for the rats!"

Both of them burst out laughing. The model concealed her embarrassment without him noticing, and Izaya visualized her figure of speech in his mind. _"Now, this makes me wanna meet her sister."_

Simon glared at the two and politely asked, "You're ruining the other customers' appetites. Do you mind lowering your voice?"

"It's a free country; you can't stop me from saying what I want!" Junko snapped back. "I guess I'll lower my voice, so you'd focus on our delayed order."

Izaya followed suit, but in a calmer voice. "Junko's kind of starving, Simon-_sama_! She doesn't fully know what she's saying, so give her a break. She'd probably visit a local magazine a few minutes from now."

"Very well." The large, African-Russian chef went back to preparing sushi, making haste to follow the two's order. "Be more considerate of everyone else next time, please."

"_Fiiiiine_." Junko sulked, then turned to Izaya. "Hear me out, will ya? Imagine tasting sushi for the first time. The exquisite blend of _sake _and crab meat soothes your taste buds, and soy sauce livens your tongue's tip. Then, eat it for the next 100 times, and the taste vanishes from your buds. Can't a lady enjoy some variety?"

"Have you tasted Siberian sushi?" Izaya asked. "What about Venetian?"

"Lemme guess what's in Siberian sushi," Junko gently placed her finger under her chin and looked at Izaya's remaining sushi. All tone and emotion left her voice afterward. "_Nori_ sheets, Siberian taimen meat, _kolbasa_ bits, top it all off with _nikiri _sauce and ginger garnish."

"That's the entire recipe! Some educated guesser, you are." Izaya marveled at how she accurately uncovered his favorite recipe's ingredients. This proved a new, interesting factoid worth nothing. "_Clearly, there's more to this girl I thought…"_

"Well, I had _nikiri_ sauce back in San Diego. _Kolbasa _bits in Prague. Probably in a shit ton of places, too." Junko elaborated. "But Siberian's a combination I've never tried."

"43rd time in, and the taste still sticks until you use mouthwash. What's the best Japanese restaurant you've been to?" Izaya asked, probing Junko for more information about herself. "For me, it's here, Russia Sushi. Friendly staff, variety of sushi, fun conversations with anyone.

"None of them." The model frowned, looking dissatisfied at the place. Among all the things Izaya listed, she experienced none of them.

"Not even here, huh." He had nothing but glowing reviews for Simon's sushi. Junko's the first person he heard to speak poorly about it, but he wasn't one to judge opinions. "Was it the food? The atmosphere? The sanitation?"

"All of them tastes like cement!" Junko's frown grew deeper. Mushrooms sprouted from one side of her head, if Izaya trusted his eyes. "Why can't there be _one _appetizing sushi restaurant? I'd give sacks of yen for one good taste."

"I think I've found out your problem." Izaya gave her a cold stare. "You see, the brain's one wonderful and dreadful organ. I had someone with a migraine text me how they felt their brain's on fire. It's an untrue statement, you know why?"

In a flash, Junko's mouth turned to its normal shape. "Tell me something I don't know."

Izaya stroked his chin, making sure he knows his neuroscience. "The brain's got no pain receptors. Poke it, prod it, remove half of it and it'll feel nothing. Neither does it have taste receptors. It can't savor the taste of well-crafted food, nor spit out pungent trash in disgust." He then stuck his tongue out, and pointed at it. "We taste food with this…" - then moved his finger to his head - "and not this."

Junko raised an eyebrow while processing Izaya's words. "_Must have been the first time she's heard this. Or not," _the information broker thought to himself.

"Is our Siberian sushi ready yet? It's taking, like, an eternity." The model complained.

"Simon-_sama_'s a fast chef, but he can't be at many places at once." Izaya then turned to the cashier-slash-sushi chef. "_Они готовы?__"_

"A few minutes!" Simon replied, boiling a few batches of rice right after carving _kolbasa_ meat into bits, all while juggling six other orders.

Just as Izaya grabbed his sudoku puzzle, Junko's phone rang. Shrill, high-pitched pop music blasted from the speakers and caught the attention of Russia Sushi's customers.

"Mute your phone, or I'll grab it and break it into a hundred pieces!" The bald man from earlier threatened, shaking his fist at the two. Two people brandished their knives and brass knuckles in response.

Junko picked up the incoming call, and visibly sighed at the caller's identity. "Not you again. What will you blabber about this time?"

"**Jarhead Sis**"

"**080-4353-3221"**

* * *

Mukuro took one last look at her groceries - eggs, sugar, almond milk, sandwich bread, rat poison and, finally, maple syrup. _Things and Stuff_ recently had a sale, so she figured her considerable pay can afford them. It will be breakfast day tomorrow, and she didn't want to give her low-quality meals.

"Would you like to add anything, miss?" A young man in a camo jacket, his scanner ran through Mukuro's items, the register beeping each second.

"Do you sell picture frames?" Mukuro asked in return, only remembering what's #1 in her grocery list.

"Currently out of stock. Come back next week." Done with the maple syrup, the cashier put her goods in a paper bag with the same speed and precision.

"What about that over there?" The soldier pointed at the frame behind the register. In the frame were three men, standing near a blue car holding beer. Mukuro could tell the cashier was in the middle, recognizing his undercut and faint goatee.

"That's not for sale. Hate to judge you, but it's kind of weird that you're the first customer to ask about frames." The cashier responded. "Although, I know a store you can buy from." He moved near the window and showed her said store. Well-lit, jam-packed with goods and with two vending machines outside, Total Convenience Store seemed the better choice for Mukuro's needs.

"I'm new here, I'm sorry." Mukuro's response was as canned as an email template, yet the way she delivered it made her sound natural. She silently thanked Junko for Verbal Communication 101. "Thanks for the directions."

"No problema, miss." The cashier replied, coming back to his stall.

"_I may have to pay more than usual for a frame." _Unlike Things and Stuff_,_ Total Convenience Store didn't have a sale, so she began to guess its price. "_3,500… 4,000… no, the best frame has to be 15,000 yen. A cheap one cannot do!_"

Mukuro reached into her pocket, fumbling around for money. She knew she may have to dig deep to get a beautiful frame. Or sell a few mementos from her Fenrir service in Buyee, if she didn't have enough.

She felt her I.D., her trusted Cold Steel Trail Master, and her less-trusted Nokia 6350, but not her second wallet. Was she too preoccupied with pancake ingredients to notice it was missing? No, she triple-checked her belongings before shopping. Perhaps she misplaced it in gym? She could go back to Rakuei and search there. Junko stole it- she _borrows _it from time to time, and she has expensive tastes to satisfy.

"What's wrong, miss?"

Behind her, shoppers rushed through the shelves, taking whatever they needed. Carrying their goods with them, they formed a line to the cashier. Mukuro stood in the front, blocking everyone else when she called her sister's number.

"Junko, where did you put my other wallet?" She thought she must have found it outside their bathroom or dining room.

"You're ruining my conversation! Gah!" Junko sneered from the other end. "I wanted to get my sushi fix, so I borrowed it for a while. Besides, you've got your other wallet!"

"Conversation? With who?" Mukuro's eyes perked. Her sister's a social butterfly, different from herself who preferred sitting in the corner. For some reason, she preferred tall, black-haired guys. What is with them, she may never fully know.

"It's none of your business!" Her sister exclaimed. "Have you bought our groceries yet? You promised French Toast Friday tomorrow."

"Yes, and yes," Mukuro replied quietly. "Do you want me to pick you up when you're done?"

"And make me look bad in front of this guy? Sod off."

Mukuro sighed to herself in resignation. "I just wanted to buy this picture frame..."

"Fuck your frame! What are you gonna do with it, eat it? Dip it in ketchup and wash it down with Ramune?! Buy it next week if you want it so bad!" Junko barked. From her background, Mukuro heard a male voice saying 'Shut up!', then her sister's voice saying 'fine.'

"Where are you?" Mukuro unfurled her map of Ikebukuro and pressed her finger at local restaurants. "Mutekiya? Il Teatro? What about Hanamura's? Their noodles are good."

"Young lady, can you please move?" As the sisters talked, a middle-aged woman with a preschooler beckoned her.

A teenager lifting two bags spoke next. "If you're not buying stuff, get out!"

When Mukuro looked back, she noticed that the line now stretched two blocks from Things and Stuff. Young and old, groups of friends and single persons, the shoppers stood patiently waiting for her to finish her call. A few murmured among themselves to pass the time, and some others signaled at her to give way.

"Miss? May you please move out of the line?"

"Young woman, I have a ton of shit to buy!"

"Get the fuck out, dammit!"

Their cries grew the longer Mukuro stalled in front. But Junko's insults (and at times, flatters) bring her to a different world with only two of them in it. Absorbed into her conversation, her ears isolated nearby noise into the background, ignoring the rabble.

"...did you just buy almond milk? I'm allergic to nuts, dumbass!" 13th Junko insult this day.

"From what I remembered, almonds aren't nuts, at all."

"Well shit, you got something right for once in your life." The counter just hit 14th. Another one to take in stride.

"You… knew?"

"No wonder you flunked biology. Actually, I'll call you back. Later, my beloved pig-pen!" Two insults add up to 16! Don't all sisters disagree every once in a while? Under her breath, Mukuro thanked her for that trivia.

In the real world, the cashier talked with the shoppers to settle down before a fight breaks out. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, guys. But you have to keep waiting. Earth to cellphone lady, is anyone here?"

"I'm here, yes." Mukuro put her phone down and headed towards the exit carrying her groceries.

Relieved, the line quieted down, and the cashier went to scanning their purchases one by one.

Such is the life of Mukuro Ikusaba.

Moving from Kasai, she heard Ikebukuro would be a land of opportunity. A land where anyone can make a name for themselves. Where they can meet interesting people, and visit interesting places.

So far, she's been her sister's errand girl for two weeks. Junko wants to eat this brand of cereal, she pays for it upfront. Clothes needed for a photoshoot? Run to the nearest laundromat. Harassed by a creep? A few broken bones will make him go away for a while.

"_At least she appreciates me." _Mukuro thought to herself, walking across Sunshine 60 Street wondering where to go next. Perhaps she could brush up her skills at a shooting range. A scoop of ice cream could cool her tongue. Or sit on a bench and observe people walking by.

But she had no time to lollygag, as her sister's eating sushi with a complete, total stranger. Sometimes, Junko got together with her fans who invited them to eat in any restaurant. Most of them kept civil during their meal, perhaps under threat of the Ultimate Soldier skewering them alive when they get too touchy.

Mukuro saw headlines of good-looking males offering girls alcohol, and she drew her own conclusions on what happened. What if this was what the stranger had in mind? Her sister's looks made her a tempting target. Junko knew some Krav Maga techniques she learned from her, but Ikebukuro's men towered over her. They can mangle and rip her to shreds, and she would be too far away to stop them.

The frame can wait. Junko's safety cannot. Sitting on a bench, Mukuro steeled herself for the moment she'd call back. Wait, what if they took her phone? How would she know what happened to her? What if they covered her mouth, and she can't understand her muffled words?

Mukuro was as stoic as the Ikefukuro Statue; even so, uneasy thoughts and questions eroded her mind from the inside.

* * *

"Here's your order, Orihara-_san_: four servings of Siberian sushi." Simon left the bowls in Izaya and Junko's table. It's a strange recipe, she noted; ground-up salmon meat was a substitute for traditional sushi rice. A mix of _kolbasa _bits and ginger garnish added a peculiar taste to the meal, which activated her curiosity.

"You're right, Izaya, this is something new," Junko said. "Do you have a napkin? I don't wanna scald my dainty little fingers."

"Sure, princess." Fortunately, Izaya kept his napkin pack with him every day and handed her two pieces. "Can't say the same thing for your tongue."

"It's okay." Unbeknownst to him, Junko yearned for exactly that. Nothing better than a burning sensation to spice up your pain receptors. Wrapping the bowl with a napkin, she held a piece of taimen meat and took a nibble from it.

First impressions were everything when it comes to food. Depending on her mood, Junko relished the joy of tasting zesty meals or the despair of swallowing bitter slop. If the food was drab and tasted like cardboard, she spat it out and crushed under her heels until it disappeared. She found it more enjoyable than practically tasting nothing.

"Wow, this sushi's amazing!" The brew of flavors from the raw Siberian fish meat to the spicy ginger garnish dissolved in her mouth. The taste was exquisite! Her taste buds, well-pleased with the meal, hungered for more.

"Did you like it?" Inferring the answer, Izaya, nearly finished with his bowl, asked anyway.

"Best sushi I've had in years!" Junko beamed, halfway on her second. "Too bad I'll get bored of it eventually."

"Try my advice. Taste with your tongue, not with your brain." Izaya said as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

His profession led him to meet all sorts of professions and personalities. Some salarymen, some NEET's, many in-between. He chatted with histrionic mothers, met with short-tempered teenagers in person, and cut deals with all MBTI types.

But the girl's type was uncommon. He suspected it when he noticed Junko looking at her sushi, examining it for perhaps its ingredients and calorie content. Her constant tapping at the floor, and twirling her hair when Simon was busy. How she talked about her own sister, and practically yelled at the caller earlier (which he presumed had to be her).

Most people escape their boring lives using the Internet or TV, but Junko acted like she was bored with escapism. Being a couch potato or social media junkie could only go so far for her. Turned off by daily life, she hunted for new stimuli to process, new thrills to enjoy.

"_She'd start a riot here if she didn't get her sushi," _Izaya thought. _"Though it'd be exciting! We get caught up in their brawl, maybe get a glimpse of phone or credit card numbers here and there…"_

Too bad there's someone else in Ikebukuro who frequently got involved in brawls. Smart and sensible people ran away once he charged in like a speeding tanker truck. After his rage subsided, he walked away, leaving a lot of broken vending machines in his wake.

"_Shizu-chan. Oh, him."_

Once the two finished their Siberian sushi, Izaya went to Simon and handed him his yen. "_Вы отличный повар, спасибо_! Here's my pay."

Taking Izaya's money, Simon pulled out his phone. "Miss Enoshima-_chan_, can you take a photo with me? My niece Olga looks up to you so much!"

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Junko's already tired of the 25th time someone asked her for a picture. She had Mukuro pack a lot of disguises to walk around Ikebukuro without attracting paparazzi. Still, it was nice to treat her fans every once in a while. She raised her fingers in her signature V-sign and grinned.

Junko and Simon didn't notice, but Izaya smiled to himself too. At long last, he's discovered an interesting specimen. How would she react to this? What will she do when that happens? His mind has already devised multiple experiments to put her through.

And Izaya needed a lot of Post-It notes for her. After Simon's done with taking pictures, all that was left to do is ask for her number.

But Junko took the initiative. "You seem like an interesting guy to be with. What's _your _number?"

Izaya handed her a small note. "I'm not famous around here, so I can't let too many people know. Anyway, here's mine."

Junko blushed. "080-2211-9426. I gotta go, I'm 10 minutes late for my photoshoot!"


	2. Afternoon, Evening, Midnight City

Dark clouds began to form as Junko walked outside Russian Sushi smiling. After a tedious day spent searching for restaurants, Siberian Sushi's sweet savor made it all worth it in the end. As a bonus, she met a cool, knowledgeable guy to text with when she's bored.

So that rainwater couldn't spoil her makeup and splash on her designer clothes, the fashionista opened her umbrella up, waiting for her sister Mukuro by the entrance. Her mind conjured more or less 150 establishments she could be at that moment: most likely, the shooting range on the behind the Sega store where she practiced her aim. Other possibilities included a dingy, second-rate diner anywhere where she ate by herself, _probably _the adult store near the Metropolitan Plaza looking for sibling love videos. She chuckled to herself at the mental image of the last option.

Calculating how long she talked with Izaya during her meals, it must be 4:52 P.M.; exactly 58 minutes, 11 seconds and 748 milliseconds from the time Mukuro called her. Now that she thought about it, not bringing her Rolex that day didn't bother her much. A quick look at her phone confirmed her guess: it was, indeed, 4:52 P.M.

That's 2 hours and 38 minutes of free time before going to the GyaruChan magazine for her weekly photo-shoot. 4 hours and 38 minutes before she sits at Taka Arisawa's couch. Junko's never heard of him, but from minimal research, the talk show host was a big deal in Ikebukuro media. The resident 'starmaker', anyone who appeared in his show became the city's topic of conversation overnight.

Perfect for her plans.

"Junko! Did he hurt you? Steal your belongings?" Just as Junko thought of texting her agent, she heard Mukuro's voice out of nowhere. Running through pedestrians along the way, Mukuro sprinted to her when she saw her sister's pink and yellow umbrella and tossed a yellow bag in her direction. "Here's your bag you told me to bring earlier!"

"At least you cared more about that frame," Junko snapped back, effortlessly catching her bag. "But I'm fine, no thanks to you."

Mukuro couldn't respond with anything more than an awkward silence. Her sister was completely correct; she left her in that restaurant with a dubiously-intentioned stranger. She sighed at herself, silently thanking whatever deity was out there that nothing happened to Junko.

And then she heard the familiar pitter-patter of rain.

Almost by instinct, Mukuro hopped under Junko's umbrella, taking shelter from the volley of raindrops all over the city. The raindrops splashed into the ground, but Junko's annoyance grew into a storm. _"You have the stronger immune system! Fuck off!" _She nearly said as she thought of pushing her away, but relented in the end.

"Where were you?" Junko asked, glaring at Mukuro.

"I was looking for you," Mukuro responded like a little girl denying she stole the cookie jar - as chocolate chips fall out of her mouth.

"Don't bullshit me," Junko called her bullshit, which she coincidentally shared her smell.

"But I looked for you, right after I bought French toast." Mukuro meekly answered.

"What store was it?" Junko asked. "Let me guess: Things and Stuff?"

"Yeah."

Just as she responded in the affirmative, a black motorcycle zoomed near them. Junko barely caught a glimpse of the rider due to their unnatural speed, but from what she made out, they wore an all-black jumpsuit that complemented their pitch-black bike. Their blue-yellow helmet seemed to have… cat ears? She's seen weirder things.

Six police motorcycles pursued the mysterious rider, their wailing sirens playing brass for the orchestra of typical city life. The shrill noise distracted Junko from a police bike's wheel splattering mud at both of them. Mukuro shielded her sister with her body, causing the puddle to blanket her instead. Now a walking mass of dripping, sticky wet soil, combined with what can only be described as dried dog feces, the foul stench grew too much for Junko bear, causing her to vomit nearly-digested rice and meat.

"Shit! You'll need industrial-grade bleach to clean yourself up!" With two hands, Junko covered her nose. The pedestrians followed her example, moving away as far as possible.

"At least you didn't get dirty." Mukuro wiped a slab of mud off her face with her handkerchief.

"But you are right now, and it's making me wanna plug my nostrils in forever!"

"I can do it for you." Mukuro offered.

"Get your hands off me! Jesus, is this how you treat your Fenrir buddies in boot camp?! You ought to be the first person to walk on Uranus! God, Uranus jokes are so predictable..."

"What do you mean? I don't have astronaut training..." Puzzled, Mukuro asked. "Except for survival skills, but space isn't the Middle East."

"I'm not explaining the joke. Work that out for yourself." Junko's fingers never left her nostrils once since mud covered her sister. "Which reminds me. What do you need a picture frame for, of all things?"

"That frame's for something important." Mukuro blushed. "I just… I just wanted to treasure our memories together."

"That's all? I guess you should've said that earlier. I can't believe you had me thinking you were looking up stepsibling love films. Muku-chan, I'm not a judgy type, unless you get your fashion sense from Comme des Garçons."

No reaction from Mukuro. Junko normally dismissed this as stoicism she learned from Fenrir, but her facial veins remained red. Two of her default emotions when she's with her at the same time. Blushing stoically, an oxymoronic emotion if there ever was one.

_"__But it's not a word for a reason. _" Mukuro clearly held her emotions back, but the latter was winning the psychological tug-of-war. There has to be a word for this, it's just at the tip of her tongue-

It hit her. She knew the perfect word to describe what her sister felt. That's her own default emotion, for Christ's sake!

_Saudade _. Missingness. A deep yearning for things one lost. " _No direct Japanese translation can do the original Portuguese word justice," _Junko presumed.

In fact, she ran out of words to describe _saudade, _having felt it every day. But what if she tried to express its meaning in the best way instead? Come up with the perfect mixture of words and sensory detail? That would entertain her for the time being, and distract from her monotonous existence.

_Saudade. _The first girly dress Mom forced her to wear for a gathering. The first half-eaten sandwich she scavenged from the trash with Mukuro when they lived in the streets. Hell, the first menstrual blood-stained napkin she forced down a bully's throat might count.

Different events, same principle - new experiences. It was so boringly simple, wasn't it? People learn a few things from them, enhance their curiosity. Junko remembered how her first-grade teacher told her to "get out of her comfort zone, every once in a while."

Earlier, Izaya told her the same thing. Taste with her tongue, not her brain. Don't drown yourself in statistics and variables and constants, and enjoy something for what it is.

But what can she do if her planet-sized comfort zone follows her wherever she goes? What can she do if all she perceives are statistics and variables and constants?

_"__Maybe I can tell Muku-chan to roll in the mud and squeal like the diseased pig she is. She'll only ask how long she should do it. I could record it with my phone!"_

Mukuro hobo perfume - the term for her normal smell, worsened by mud - snapped her back to reality. Cars, vans, bikes surrounded them at every turn. It stopped raining, only for diesel exhaust to take its place. Mashed with the loud chatter of pedestrians, the ear-splitting symphony of horns and the dual stench of Mukuro mud and exhaust fumes thrashed her senses every second she stood there.

"Fine, you can buy that stupid frame." Junko let Mukuro's negligence go unpunished. Just this _once _. "Just make sure you get my picture where my face has the most space!"

"Yes, Junko-chan!" Mukuro's smile shone through the thick grime covering her. Had it been nighttime, she would have looked like a swamp monster hungrily staring at its prey. A few nearby pedestrians took the hint, taking out their phones and capturing pictures of this unsightly 'creature'.

"Muku-chan, let's get home before we end up on the news, or worse, some weirdo's conspiracy blog." Junko mused.

* * *

_7:00 p.m._

Yet another photoshoot for GyaruChan magazine. Ugh.

As far as Junko knew, GyaruChan only spawned amateurs. Imitators. Basic bitches who strut with tennis shoes and take selfies wearing bomber jackets, but never soak their dresses swimming against the tide. The Ganguro girls Izaya mentioned earlier epitomized that. She snickered at the irony of a counter-cultural trend being part and parcel of Japanese pop culture. How despairful! All she had to do was rub that fact on these trend-hoppers' faces. Then she can look forward to the day the Internet smothers print media on its sickbed with its long dress.

Until then, she's bound by the favor she made with Shion Yamamura, GyaruChan's editor-in-chief. A woman in her early twenties, she was familiar with the current millennial zeitgeist when it comes to fashion. Junko was the most logical choice as she was costly; convincing her to be the magazine's cover girl cost her 700,000 yen.

Shion thought she'd have to live the next four months of her life in another tenant's cupboard to survive, but Junko rejuvenated GyaruChan's sales enough to earn back more than half of the cost.

"Late by an hour and thirty." Shion's disapproving look said everything. "I have to admire your punctuality."

"Better late than never. Did you think my schedule wasn't tight? " The model placed her bag of clothes on the table. "I didn't know this was how rush hour was like in Ikebukuro."

"But you made our photogs wait forever for your ass to show up! You wanna know the only thing stopping me from replacing you? Legions of your mindless fans!"

_"__None of what she said was incorrect. I gotta admire her keen eye for detail." _Junko chuckled to herself. _"She's got one vital thing to work on, though: patience."_

The editor-in-chief leaned near her and whispered. "What if someone posted your dirt on Twitter?"

"Would they believe it, though?" Junko replied but softening her voice so only Shion can hear. "You underestimate their gold medal-level mental gymnastics. They won't fathom their beloved queen doing what you accuse her of."

"Not without cold, hard proof." Shion countered. "You gain much from our partnership as I do. GyaruChan rakes sales, social media likes; we're currently number #1! You, on the other hand, have benefits you can't get anywhere else."

"What do I benefit from posing for a third-rate fashion magazine catering to a specific demographic?" Junko asked.

After seconds of thinking it through, Shion secretly slipped a note in her pocket. "The next time you have bad publicity, share this."

The editor-in-chief wasn't hard to read; it took 2.32 seconds for Junko to analyze the note's contents. She was always in the loop regarding gossip, but ironically, she was more of a listener than a deliverer. Junko preferred 100% truth, secrets that can ruin someone's career, but can do with 85% and the rest fudged up a bit. Mostly true, but wholly accurate rumors do more lasting damage than plain hearsay.

"Anything else? Dirt doesn't pay my bills." Junko asked with a steep frown. "I grace your tab- oops, 'magazine' with my presence for a measly sum of money and you think that piece of paper is gonna convince me to wave and smile for your covers?"

Yamamura paused; she knew what she paid for, and what to expect. An anonymous photographer's broken camera after a photoshoot with Junko. A magazine model who could've made the May cover, if her scandalous pictures didn't get viral on Twitter. A magazine editor who came home to his apartment room littered with toilet paper. Who knew what will happen to her? As much as she had other people's secrets, she had her own. Secrets that could leave her broke, penniless and forced to donate her body to Yagiri Pharmaceuticals for money.

"That scoop is nothing but ice cream left on a bench on a hot, sunny day. I'd buy another one. Ever tasted Häagen-Dazs? They have this cool Japan-only flavor, Squid Ink Sundae. It's kinda like what Walker-san would've loved. He eats it with someone else now, and I know her name and address!" Junko leaned near the editor-in-chief's ears and whispered. "My web has more connections than yours, and you just flew into it, Yamamura-chan."

Upon hearing the name Walker, Shion's eye twitched. "Whatever. Just suit up already. Full Metal Alchemist is on; I've been watching paint dry for hours!"

"No problem, boss." Junko carried her luggage and went to the dressing room. "Oh, I know just how it ends. Ed ends up with-"

"_Just shut the hell up and get dressed! _" Shion let her temper get a hold of that moment. She hadn't even started the series!

"Alrighty then, boss."

Inside the dressing room, Junko had an epiphany when she put on a floral print shirt: Ikebukuro wasn't as boring as she thought it would be.

Given her… particular temperament, she loathed staying in one place for a long time. When not traveling through European towns, she would pace around a city back and forth, noting what she saw, felt, heard, smelled and tasted.

But it didn't take long until those sensations became all too familiar for Junko. The sun rose in the east and set in the west as per usual. Hot coffee cups seared her fingers, and ice packs helped reduce the pain. Cicadas' buzzing songs took her back to summer vacations in Austin and Osaka. Mukuro's smelling like Rubbish Island on her visits.

So what was it, exactly, about that batch of Siberian sushi?

Junko never tasted it before, but she could say the same thing about every single food item she tasted from infancy. Sure, it was an unconventional recipe, just not all that novel judging by the cuisine Junko tasted in her travels. She could name three meals far more bizarre than Siberian sushi: Mexican escamole, South African beef tongue, and balut. _Especially _balut. Give or take a couple of weeks, and the sushi's unique flavor evaporates into tasteless foodstuff.

Her mind came up with one theory: it's not the sushi itself for the most part, but with Izaya… that was his name, right? Doesn't sound Japanese at all, more like Catalan. Whatever his parents were on when they named him as an infant didn't matter. His fur coat, though, that was the stuff of Instagram #OOTD's. She didn't want to admit it, but her trade leopard-print coat looked like compared to it.

From what Junko had observed of him so far, the tall, black-haired, intellectual guy sounded like someone she'd DM when she felt bored. Someone who'd share _soba _noodles and sushi with her for lunch and snacks, before strolling through Ibaraki for his nature-themed panorama. Someone who took a psychology class not to get a job or understand himself more, but to lead unsuspecting people into wild goose chases for his amusement.

_Analysis: 100 complete. 80-90% accuracy… not again. _Never once did her accuracy rating go below 50%. Not that it was a useless gift; it helped in popularizing fashion trends every four or five months. Going to shopping sprees after winning bets didn't hurt.

Was she wrong before? She didn't have an excuse like Nostradamus' writings, vaguely-worded segments a 16th-century Frenchman wrote and reinterpreted to mean any world event. Instead, her eyes processed data from her senses, transmitted to her 100 petabyte brain for processing. What she saw was what she got.

_That sushi you thought to be flavorless gunk… that was unexpected, though. _For once, she unplugged her brain and let her tongue do the tasting. Just as Izaya said. 

Siberian sushi wasn't that bad. No, no, _no _, those words didn't suffice. Junko couldn't calculate how Russian fish marinated in pickled ginger and sweet soy sauce brought life back to her taste buds. She marked Russian Suhi's location into her memory to stop by anytime she craves for that recipe. She wanted more. She needed more.

But, unfortunately, Junko didn't live on food alone. All those times she spent looking pretty in front of cameras and adoring fans made her famished for another kind of pleasure. One she prized above everything else, even her own life.

People have different words for it: anguish, uncertainty, despondency, but those words lack the same oomph her favorite has - **despair**. The word alone made her mouth water, her saliva dropping to her ripped jeans' holes. She held herself, containing her near-orgasmic glee as she moaned voicelessly at the air. Good thing she locked the door or another model may open it and be baffled at the sight.

_Not causing a brawl at the sushi restaurant was a wasted opportunity. Lesson: sow despair with a full stomach next time. _Junko saw herself back at Russian Sushi, amid a free-for-all where burly brutes bash each other's brains in with baseball bats. Black eyes and broken jaws were the masks in this savage masquerade. As she was the only maskless attendee, one of those butt-ugly gangsters landed a right hook in her left eye, and the rest of them smacked her like a human piñata. Her fandom then launched a GoFundMe and donated thousands of yen or euros or dollars to her treatment! She had no schedules to worry about when all she did was lay around mummified on a hospital bed. Muku-chan broke Ikebukuro news upon shooting up the restaurant, riddling that Russian chef and hapless civilians with bullets as revenge.

Such despair! Such ecstasy! She stuck to the wall, practically pleasuring herself at the chaos and carnage she would've wrought. Had it been more intense, she would've torn out her clothes and squeaked like a nest of cartoon mice in a cheese factory.

There was one tiny problem: it all felt, what was the word? That's right, artificial.

So many possibilities, so little time: the curse of being a fashion guru and despair guru. Why settle for self-pleasure when you can find it everywhere? A few knocks at the door and a forceful " Are you done yet?" proved that statement, but at least she's fully dressed for the photo-shoot. Right after she wiped off the drool from her mouth and the floor with her handkerchief to not smudge her photos and her figure.

* * *

_"Thank Kami-sama for Monday, since it's that time of the week again: Monday Night with Taka Arisawa!"_

It felt good to hear the words his fans eagerly waited for every week.

Everywhere else, People associated Monday with humdrum work schedules and bad afterparty hangovers. Students heave their sleep-deprived bodies out of bed to walk to school. Office-goers, far from their bosses' earshot, wished they can fast-forward the day.

But one man from Ikebukuro sought to change all that. Renting a huge studio, Taka Arisawa invited actors, authors, and animal waste personnel to talk about their new projects or experiences. After a while, he realized he became too similar from other talk show hosts in the country, so he branched out to different topics to avoid accusations of plagiarism.

It's actually been three months since the last time a celebrity sat in his gray IKEA couch. For the past Mondays, he interviewed a farmer whose horse gave birth to a six-legged foal, did a night covering a convention for people named Ryusei, and even let D.I.C.E.'s 'Supreme Overlord' Kokichi Ouma talk about his plans for taking over Ikebukuro. Indeed, local teenagers sent 30-second clips of them to his website for a chance to appear in a future episode.

When Junko's agent arranged a visit to his talk show, Arisawa did not let that opportunity slide. He had his team bombard social media with news and tweets of #EnoshimaAtMondayNight, and bought multiple TV ads to inform the model's large fandom of the fact.

This was the night. When the clock hit 8:50 P.M., bright lights flooded the Monday Night studio and the cheerful theme song played from the speakers. The camera focused on Taka Arisawa, wearing a

"**Gooooooooooooood evening, men, women, and pets of Tokyo ciiiiiiiiiiiity!**" He howled into the microphone and the studio audience responded with raucous applause. "Tonight, I'm in Ikebukuro talking to none other than Junko Enoshima, #1 Instagram fashion influencer. Dubbed the 'Gyaru Muse', she's been a trailblazer in the modeling industry for the past years!"

The camera panned to Junko as she strutted to the couch to the audience's claps and cheers filling the entire studio. Some fans even raised their placards with "DATE ME" or "KEEP SLAYIN" or "WE STAN D 1 AND ONLY QUEEN". Too bad Junko's phone wasn't on - she would've recorded them and play them back while working out.

**"** Good evening, I guess… Arisawa- _san _." Junko greeted the host. "Not an obsessed fan of your show, but I liked your coverage of gang violence in this city. I just wonder, does your place have bodyguards? I mean, some thugs out there may hate how you portrayed them on TV."

"For the record, absolutely! But we're not talking about insert-color-here Scarves tonight. So," Arisawa coughs, "First on the list: Rumors say Shunji Iwai offered you Yuuhei Hanejima's leading lady role for his next movie. Has he briefed you on the details yet?"

"_The _Shunji… Shunji Iwai?" Junko raised an eyebrow, "Damn, I haven't checked my emails lately; I spent three weeks skiing in the Alps. Spent the next week drinking garlic soup." Junko pantomimed shivering in the cold, then 'sneezed' at her handkerchief. Laughter came out from the audience and the laugh track. "I also hear scammers are getting better at pretending to be royalty or some tech worker, so you can't blame me for not wanting some criminal to steal my credit card info."

"That's understandable. But, surely you've watched _All About Lily Chou-Chou _or _The Kon Ichikawa Story _?" Arisawa asked, making sure he got those titles right. He didn't want another storm of angry comments like the time when he mispronounced Hideo Kojima's name.

"I… guess I loved _The Kon Ichikawa Story _. The first wasn't too shabby, either. I trust Iwai-san to cast me in a good role." Junko flipped her right pigtail. "I'd like to suggest one that isn't just eye candy, where you just stand around and make the male protagonist look good. Clichéd romantic interests are soooo 90's."

"I have no way to confirm whether the director was Shunji-san or not, but I do believe a capable director will figure out the best role for you. Believe me, your fans are gonna storm the theater on opening day!"

"I sure hope so. Personally, I would love to appear in a horror movie; I don't care which role, the slut who dies first or the virgin who survives in the end. Hell, switch them up, play with movie tropes a bit. I'll do fine in either role. Oh, and screenwriters? That's a free writing tip there."

"Good luck in your acting career! I've got faith you may one day end up in Hollywood. Who knows, you may win an Oscar! Even visit Cannes in the meantime!" Arisawa

"An Oscar is overrated. To be blunt, I'd rather receive a Razzie Award! Bad publicity is still publicity, am I right, Arisawa-san? But should the Academy hand me a statue of a naked guy in gold where I recite a scripted speech thanking friends and family and fans who saw my movie 11 times in a row, I'd be a moron to refuse it." Laughter came out from the laugh track and the audience. Though not out loud, Arisawa thanked the sound crew for getting the Razzie-ignorant crowd to split their sides. Whoever came up with the idea to tune the sound file enough to be soft. "That being said, I just checked my mail earlier, no such director has messaged me yet. But I'm open for offers, so just hit me up for further details."

"Now that's out of the way, one of your fans sent us this picture of you and a male acquaintance in Niigata." The program displayed a screencap of Junko's Instagram post a week ago. It depicted the model in her casual, Hello Kitty-inspired dress with a pizza slice in her mouth and said male acquaintance with a dirty white shirt grouching along in T-Mall Yokohama. "Gotta admit, you're quite the public person. In Ikebukuro alone, there's a ton of people who want their grubby hands on you, and all it takes is your present address. Now I wonder, do you have a bodyguard? How do you deal with creeps and weirdos?"

"The block button is, by far, the best innovation in social media in this present decade. Forget about clones or flying cars: I wish a button like that exists in real life! Right now I just tell them politely in the most delicate, non-offensive terms to fuck off. Too bad certain troglodytes will ignore your blocks and restraining orders and press on anyway. Oh, you just mentioned a bodyguard, didn't notice that... "

* * *

Mukuro noticed how Junko didn't mention her until the last second on TV.

Lying on the couch with a few bottles of Red Bull and bowls of instant _ramen _, Mukuro tuned into Taka Arisawa and focused entirely on her sister. When Junko appeared on television, she wrote down the exact hour and minute the talk show would go live. She rushed to the studio to join the audience, or if unable to, recorded the interview with her phone. A burglar who managed to nab one of her cellphones found 500+ clips of Junko in her gallery. Mukuro got her phone back. The burglar remained missing to this day.

She would've feared for her sister's life if it weren't for their apartment's proximity to the Monday Night studio. Junko can easily walk her way there, and Mukuro can watch over her with her M24 rifle from a dimly-lit window.

Tonight, she decided to go to Arisawa's show in person to look out for her sister from afar. She felt guilty over abandoning her in that sushi restaurant, and this was her way of making up for it.

Another reason was that she was running out of funds. Ever since she arrived at the city, she mailed her resume to any employer she could contact. Junko was right: nobody in their right mind would hire someone dumb, ugly and smelly. Not even butchers or garbage collectors.

_" __¥ 600 for laughing along to what Junko or the host says? Gotta take what I can." _Mukuro thought to herself. Dressing her best: a green shirt with an ironic quote in it, camo pants, and a blue beanie hat (Junko bought it for her as a gift), she arrived early to the studio only to find all the spots were taken.

"_...had my own Ricardo López one time. Late 30's, basement dweller, human hairball type. Do you know how many times he's PM'd on Facebook and Instagram every day? _" Junko held up ten fingers, then two on her left hand. " _Exactly. I kept blocking him, but somehow he kept asking me to date him through sockpuppets. The human hand didn't evolve to click on computer mice for a long time, so I got sick of blocking him. Also, he wasn't just the stalker I had at that time. I think there were eight others…"_

To be dumb, ugly and smelly in that particular order, as Junko-chan said, might have been a blessing in disguise. Nobody dared to lay a finger on Mukuro and those who did end up with their arms in casts.

_"__...he never backed off. At all. Good God, it must have been as normal for him as taking a shit or something. So I asked my sister to deal with him. 'Deal with him' in this case meant 'hope he's civilized enough to listen to a bunch of strong words'. I replied to him with my time and address, but I was at my friend's house watching This is the End. My sister was home, and predictably, he snuck through the window..."_

Being the smarter, cuter and more fragrant twin, as she always described Junko, came with its own dangers and downsides. She set her music player at a high enough volume to block out catcalls on the street. The breaking point was the time a mugger snatched her Chanel purse containing $7,500 at the mall, while Mukuro was in the restroom after a curry meal. From then on, she never left her side unless she had pressing errands to attend to.

_"__...the guy never bothered me again. _('What did your bodyguard do?') _Ask her, she was there 24/7, guarding our apartment and watching out for wannabe thieves. She cooks my breakfast, lunch and, dinner. She clings to me like static on my designer clothes, but damn if she doesn't know how to shock. You can't ask for anybody better. I sure as hell know I can't. _('You must have the best sister in the world.') _Your words, not mine, but you hit the mark, right there. _.. _"_

Mukuro's eyes gleamed. When Junko complimented her, supposing it wasn't in a sarcastic manner, it must have meant she's done an exemplary deed. This was one of those rare moments. She joined the on-screen audience in applause, wishing she somehow made it inside. The other guests in the room, presumably fans of Junko, cheered along. The staff in the reception room stared at Mukuro, but their eye daggers failed to cut her cheering.

After French Toast Friday, Mukuro decided to put all of her efforts into finding a job to save for the best picture frame to put up. Junko may have berated her for focusing on that frame more than her, but she promised herself to save the biggest part for Junko.

All to cheer her up and make her day.

* * *

"_.._.Oops, we got sidetracked yet again! Speaking of your male friend, it's probably the first time you're seen together in public. Can you give us a rundown on who he is? He must be someone important to you."

"He's not a public person; the only place you can find his name is on a scientific journal. That, and he's too cooped up with his Ph.D. to come here." Arisawa, the audience and perhaps TV watchers gasped at the revel.

"I'd say you have a fantastic choice in guys, to be honest."

"I… wouldn't describe it that way. It's more like I hit the jackpot; I threw a net on an ocean, and it turned out the biggest fish was the goldfish you had all along. Speaking of goldfish: fun fact; the whole idea that goldfish can only remember stuff for three seconds? Complete B.S., he said."

"Interesting. How did he prove it?"

"He and his friends ran a little experiment a year ago. They rang a bell near the tank each time they dropped fish food on it, then the fish would swim there and eat them. After a while, the goldfish associated the sound with a free meal. This went on for a week, two weeks, a month, then five months. Every time they rang it, the fish swam to the exact spot. Kind of amazing, when you think about it."

"What was that test for? Maybe they can run that experiment with my cats. Or my pet turtle, if they want." This reminded Arisawa of the scientist who boasted of successfully engineering 'catgirls' by the next decade. Hopefully, he didn't have to leave hours of footage on the cutting table to avoid the dreaded censors.

"A cousin he didn't know he had until he messaged him that with a P.S. that said 'send it to 10 friends or bad luck will befall him'. He replied with a 50-page research paper on goldfish memory he wrote from that test, adding he's not one for chain letters. He got blocked, but I never forgot that."  
"He's clearly a smart guy, and boy, I think a lot of guys could only dream of being in his position. Do you two talk often? Does he use scientific jargon in conversations?"

"It's kind of ironic that a guy whose thesis deals with memory issues forgets to set his alarm for 8:00 p.m. where we're supposed to chat. I get it, he's a busy man, working on getting accepted to Stanford. But a quote I found said, 'Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.' "

"Now, I don't know you two very intimately, but I can't presume he's forgotten about you at all. He probably wishes he could drop that stack of papers and pick up his phone and call you."

"Guess he should've done it more often. Hell, my sister's way more physically present, and she wasn't always like it. God, what is with me most people just don't think I'm worth their time?"

* * *

Junko talked on and on and on to satisfy Arisawa and the audience, and the host responded with his own comments. More of what the two said could have been transcribed, but she herself didn't pay much attention to the words that came out of her mouth. To her, they were nothing more than verbal pablum to fill the air between commercials and give the masses her 'hot' takes.

_"__...you've been a fascinating person, Miss Enoshima. I hope you'll come back here in the future! I wanna know more about your trip to Crete. For a sneak peek of next week's guest, he started as a lowly farmer from Cambodia and made his way to the top of Ikebukuro's tattoo scene..." _were the last things Junko heard from Arisawa as she headed out of the building.

_"__What a boring Monday night," _Junko thought. The host got what he wanted: become the talk of the city for a week before the next guest. She didn't; after the mandatory keep up appearances ritual she immediately went to the vending machine and downed an entire can of Pepsi. A gulp of carbonated soda always put her boredom to rest, even for a while.

Quenching her thirst, she found Mukuro in the reception room and sat beside her. "You have more money with you? Let's go to Hanamura's tonight; best noodles in Tokyo."

"I'm sorry, Junko, I spent it all on French toast ingredients." Mukuro froze and rummaged her wallet for coins. "M-Maybe we can try the Korean diner instead? It's cheaper."

"You say that like I have a taste for flour soup or rice cakes. I lost them months ago." Junko bit her lip and clenched her fist, bottling her rage as the two walked out the door. "But honestly, I'd rather eat a whole tub of flour than listen to that windbag blurt out dull questions."

The only good thing that happened this day seemed to be the Siberian sushi from that Russian restaurant. The zest she felt from Siberian sushi, sadly, lasted for a little while. Even so, her taste for exotic food had always been a poor imitation for despair. There was always the option of starving yourself for a week, provoking her gastric acids to digest her own stomach while she slowly wasted away. Stand in front of a fridge packed with all kinds of food but refuse to pick anything from it.

But doing so would sacrifice one of her greatest assets - _not _what boys look at and imagine their faces landing on. Her days of all-expenses-paid trips and celebrity dinners didn't come cheap; they depended on how many people paid for her pretty face to plaster their magazines and billboards. Not wanting a rival to nab her for themselves, GyaruChan didn't skimp on her salary, so she remained financially secure unless she bought the latest smartphone model.

This doesn't mean she can't spoil herself, or her sister a little.

"Where is that diner, again?" Junko asked. "Hopefully- shit, no, no, no, **perhaps **they serve great _bulgogi _."

Mukuro showed her the Ikebukuro map. "This says five blocks from here, across the Metropolitan Hotel. I have enough money to buy two bowls of-"

"I'm footing the bill." Junko showed her purse in response.

"...Alright."

The two let the taxis pass by and go on foot to the Korean diner. Junko felt infinitely more secure with Muku-chan around and was eager to immerse herself in Ikebukuro nightlife. Mukuro would want to glance around shops and stores, marking them to memory to familiarize herself with the city.

Besides, there were street lights that illuminated their way and served as impromptu spotlights. Fellow travelers whose footfalls provided the percussion for the grand Ikebukuro orchestra. Cooing pigeons played the trumpets, beeping car horns the violins, and chattering pedestrians the double bass. Junko looked at a few children from a distance knocking over a trash can and rummaging what they can from it. Mukuro observed a young girl clinging to her male companion, perhaps waiting for a taxi.

For the two sisters, a woman stopping by for a smoke, an old man with his earphones on, a young man tapping away at his phone, and a host of other actors, the city's blinding skyline provided the perfect backdrop for the show that was urban life.

"Are you sure you know where we're going, Muku-chan?" Junko asked, stopping by a food cart to buy some _gyoza_. "It's probably in another city."

"We just crossed two blocks, sis. But if we keep going, we could reach it by 10:00 P.M." Mukuro felt her pockets for her things and thieves' hands she'd break. "We'll never get lost thanks to this map."

"Sure, sis." Junko flicked a dumpling at her mouth and walked on.

They passed by the English-language school, then the soccer store. They cut through a line of people on the fortune-telling booth. A young man in dreadlocks offered them a glimpse of their future. Despite his offers of a 40% discount, then 45%, 50%, 60%, the two ignored him. "_ Ooooh, rubbing a crystal ball and predicting favorable situations that can happen to anyone. Anyone can do that parlor trick, but only very few can match my gift." _He didn't seem like a telepath, but she could only think of what he'd scream if he read her mind.

The hairstylist from the salon waved at them to no response. An old, bearded man begged them for spare change, only for Junko to throw chewed bubblegum at the ground.

On and on they went. They passed the city library, the cramming school, the street performer pretending he's stuck in a glass cell, and an abandoned apartment said to be a gang hideout for about seven times in a loop before they realized it. "You said we won't get lost. What does this look like?" Junko remarked.

"The- the tourism office said this map was the latest one they had…" Mukuro showed her the Ikebukuro map complete with drawn-over directions and location marks.

"Moron, have you looked at the lower left? This was made years ago!

"I'll get the updated version, sis." Mukuro requested.

"Do you even know where the tourist office is?" Junko never trusted Muku-chan's sense of direction, and their current status confirmed it. "You'll probably wind up at the toilet museum instead."

"I don't think it's far from here, actually," Mukuro answered. "Just a few streets and we're-"

"Fine, we'll ask the locals."

Heading to the alley near an ice cream vendor, Junko's eyes met with four men standing around. The beanie hat man with a brown long-sleeved polo was conversing with a blue shirt-wearing guy shorter than him. She didn't know the subject yet, but her intuition gambled the answer as 'relationships'. The muscled punk with the shades crossed his arms and the acne-covered teenager peeked at the model lustily from time to time. She wasn't surprised by the swelling in his pants.

"Hi!" Flashing her trademark smile, Junko's diction switched to her 'pretty but lost tourist girl' mode. "How do we get to the Korean diner? Are we close?"

Just as she finished asking, the four men huddled together and began whispering to each other. None of her ears picked up what the words were, but she knew they had much more in mind than simply point them the directions. The pimply teen pointed at Junko often, and the guy with the shades tapped the two near to him in the back.

"Yeah, if you're up to something, well let me tell you this:" This is a shakedown, Junko knew it, but she has her best shot with her in times like this. "My sis has served a shit ton of tours in the Middle East and-"

"Is that you, _the _Junko Enoshima?"

"Never thought you'd come to this part of town, of all places."

"Can I have a selfie with you? Pretty please with meringue and peanut butter splattered all over?"

"Hey, sexy! What are ya doing this time of night?"

As a celebrity, Junko learned to tell sincere compliments from flattery. Fans who did nothing but regurgitate positive things to her were only in it to not look like outcasts. Small-time influencers who suddenly got popular and spammed her multiple DM's surely paid for fake followers to inflate their fame and only deserve to be ghosted unless she needed something from them.

But these four strange men didn't appear like they were mere hangers-on and ass kissers. Were they genuine 'chivalry isn't dead' types who'd do anything for a woman? Opportunistic vipers looking for a wad of money in return, or a one-night pleasure-fest? Or were those words of praise verbal chloroform before they pick them clean of their valuables? The shrill whistles aimed at her indicated the latter options. Mukuro had to have her concealed knife with her when she went to the studio.

"I'd loooove to take pics with you guys, but I and my sis' stomachs are like growling dogs, and I don't like you guys getting mauled." Junko's next course of action was more… diplomatic. "But yeah, I'd love to hang out with you - maybe at the Korean resto. You guys know where it is? Food and drinks are on us."

"Eunjung loved it, remember?" The beanie man smirked at his toned acquaintance. "Daiji, Daiji, be a gentleman for once and-"

"We're not talking about her, Sadao! Besides, Korean food tastes like dried shit and I'd rather eat somewhere else." Daiji berated. "Didn't we agree on it a week ago?"

"Damn right." The acne kid raised his face his left hand to his cheek, but then crossed his arms and scowled at the sisters as he tried to stand over them. "Besides, this is Dollars territory. Pay up, and you pretty things'll walk out without stitches!"

"What did you say again? I can't hear you from below the tree." Junko giggled. "I'm just not fond of rabid chipmunks."

"You think we'll give you a pass just cause I have, uh, all your magazines at home…" The other three stared at the teen. Daiji tried to contain himself from laughing, his mouth ending up as a smirk. "...to remind myself of the ideal lady I work damn hard to get?" He then turned to his companions. "Come on, she's gotta be a 9 or a 10 by your standards!"

"She's a 5 in mine," The well-built man's gruff voice showed Hotaka's how to pass off as a tough guy. "Take off the makeup and camera filters? You get a typical ganguro girl from Raira, not even the naturally-hot one."

Junko kept up her facade, but behind her cover-worthy smile and sparkling eyes was a completely blank response. The brute wouldn't last a day without his potato chips, yet She's seen this comment from a hundred haters already and wished he went for the jugular, metaphorically and/or literally. The sight of Hotaka's flimsy excuse falling through and Daiji mocking him while Sadao filmed the whole thing was a good appetizer, though.

"Awwwww… and I thought you knew where the restaurant is." Junko said. "Guess we'll be on our way-"

"This is the wrong street, miss. It's on the corner of Gekijo-dori Street and the way going to Nishi-Ikebukuro Park. There's a shortcut, though." Sadao put his phone down and pointed at the alley near a telephone pole. Curiously, it was devoid of slackers or teenagers passing the time: dumpsters and trash bags sat along the passage while doors and windows hung around. Most of them were closed, save for one window where the lights were on. "I and Chikao can accompany you there."

Chikao, the muscle-man, agreed. "If none of you guys will go, I will. A few guys at the chat loved the diner's _deok-bokki _, and I want to try it out for myself."

"I-I changed my mind, you gals don't need to pay the Dollar toll. Just this once, alright?" Hotaka tried to save face.

"Gee, thanks, guys! Let's be on our way." Junko smiled. "Food and drinks are on me!"

While they were crossing the alley, Junko saw an arm with a handkerchief come out for a split-second. The handkerchief smelled like brown sugar but dipped in a vat of various chemicals. Her eyes grew heavy and she felt like the world turned slightly clockwise. Realizing the chemical, she quickly turned her head away from the arm and plugged her nostrils to prevent herself from inhaling more.

She then turned at the four men arguing among themselves.

"...that's how it happens in the movies, dammit! Who knew chloroform doesn't work like that? I sure as hell don't!" Hotaka snapped.

"Ever Googled it once in your life?" Sadao kept his stern voice. "I said it before, it takes more than 5 minutes to knock someone out. You just strong-armed me into your 'brilliant' plan."

"Is this your best prank?" Junko commented. " Let me give you a short chemistry lesson. "

"Sorry, _sensei _", Chikao brought out his brass knuckles. "I'm more of a P.E. genius."

"Thanks for the comment, you gym rat. Anyway, as I was saying-" Mukuro zoomed into Chikao's side and kicked the brass knuckles from his palms as he attempted to put them on. The knuckles propelled into a storm drain, falling into the sewers below.

"The chemical name for chloroform is trichloromethane. Formula - CHCl₃." Daiji's stun gun narrowly missed Mukuro's waist mid-activation, only for the soldier to hit his left arm, turning the taser around to his own elbow. The Dollar writhed as his left arm turned numb, his stun gun's spark the last sound he heard before collapsing.

"It's made up of chlorine and methane. Chlorine kills bacteria it touches, including the pesky .01% soaps can't kill." Not one to surrender, Chikao lunged himself into Mukuro like a speeding truck only to uppercut a lamp post. Fortunately for him, it was sturdy enough to withstand him. He was no Shizuo Heiwajima, and that feat landed him minutes of wrapping his bloody right fist.

"Methane, on the other hand? It's used everywhere: fuels, grills, even fertilizer." Hotaka slowly backed away from the soldier, his right hand in his back pocket searching for his throwing knife. Feeling its sweaty handle, the acne-covered teen tossed the knife at Mukuro's head. Sensing the projectile in mid-air and it would land, she intercepted the knife like a fielder catching a baseball. Realizing he had no options left, Hotaka raised his hands and begged her to spare him and his friends. Sadao took the hint and ran as far as he could.

"Buuuuut there's also its most common producer: cow manure. In layman terms: _bullshit _." Chikao kicked the unconscious Daiji in the shoulder to no response. "Don't just lay on the ground! Get 'em, you boneless sacks of flesh!" Hotaka shrieked to his men a few seconds after his 'surrender'.

"A good way to describe your absolute joke of a 'plan', frankly. Where did you get that chemical?" Junko continued her lesson-slash-taunt. "Actually, don't answer that. But I do think tonnes of toilet paper were involved."

She didn't notice the same arm who tried to knock her out earlier hand Hotaka a pistol. The teen's hands started shaking as if he lifted a 20-pound dumbbell and unloaded a shot at the dumpster trying to hold the handle straight. Cursing to himself, he took a deep breath, lifted the pistol with all his strength and aimed it at Junko's head.

"Don't move, you black-haired jarhead! Or this whore gets it!" Hotaka yelled.

During his struggles to raise his gun, Junko's prying eyes meticulously analyzed every possible event that could occur in that scenario. She took into account how mear the gun is at her head, the wind's direction and speed, how many times Hotaka's hands shivered and how many times he tried to steel himself.

_Chances of shooting me in the right hemisphere: 39.84%. _

_Chances of missing and hitting my right cheek or upper lip or hyoid bone: 58.12%._

_Chances of missing me entirely and hitting something or someone else: 77.93%. _

"You see, I saw you coming from a kilometer away. I wish I was surprised at how you still went through it like I'm some naïve girl out at night." Junko said, ignoring the gun in front of her. "You gave the orders; didn't you, Hotaka-kun?"

"I-I sure did! Excuse my idiotic henchmen, they're just like dinosaurs chilling near the meteor that'll kill them." Hotaka spat at the ground." But I got you in the end, so it all worked out-"

He didn't get to finish gloating as Mukuro grabbed the pistol from his hands at near-lightning speed. The hunter had become the prey, and she fired at Hotaka without hesitation.

When she expected a loud bang, she heard a soft click instead. "What?" The soldier uttered in disbelief.

"Gun's empty now." Chikao came from behind and wrapped his arms around Junko's neck. She sank her teeth into his forearm, but she still felt wind escape her lungs. She poked and prodded and pricked every area her hands can reach and the thug only tightened his grip on the model more. Her neck placed inside an unbreakable vice, croaky cries for help came out of her mouth as she shook and trembled in agony.

Muku-chan winded up and flung the throwing knife like a speeding bullet. The projectile pierced the brute's left hand, and Chikao kept choking the life out of her beloved sister with his right.

This was probably it. To think her grand plans for this city, this country and the whole wide world would be stopped by this savage strangling her to the hottest layer in hell. All for some night's walk to a shitty restaurant with a shitty twin! God, she wished her vocal cords weren't so squeezed so she would scream! Not in pain, the hell with that, but in pure delight!

"_Kyaa~! Choke me harder, daddy! Knock the fuckin' air out of me until I pass out or away! No hard feelings at all! _" Had the Dollars gave her an opportunity to say her last words, they'll be nothing but words of gratitude for this one-of-a-kind experience. Thanking him for releasing her from this pitiful coil into a fun-filled afterlife. She closed her eyes and smiled for what possibly was the last time she did any of these things…

"Last goddamn chance, bitch! Pay us our due or he'll snap, crackle, and pop her shiny neck!" He then turned to Mukuro, his eyes searing red. "You move or do anything funny; forget snapping, he'll rip her neck in two! You hear it; _two _!"

This was Hotaka's moment. Gone would be the days of butt shoves and "Kick Me" signs in class. Gone would be the days of pranks and dislikes he received online on a daily basis. He will no longer be Hot Garbage Hotaka.

Hotaka saw himself in his mind's eye sitting on the couch on Monday Night. Arisawa enthralled with his bold story of forcing gang bosses to lick his boots and hand him a million yen. His girlfriend, Sayaka Maizono, entrancing the crowd with her group Crane Generation's hit song, _Sky Blue Canvas_. The first bouts of his newfound infamy built on the tears of the Junkommittee.

Mukuro stood frozen, unable to raise a fist or a gun. The Dollars weren't bluffing this time around; she knew they would make good on their threat once they saw a muscle twitch. While she remained in place, unbridled rage mixed with the fear inside of her, the anger spewing out visions of these monsters beaten and battered until no one would recognize their remains.

Acting out these impulses would've meant separation between them for good, and she refused to risk that. She could commence nuclear option, but it would've been impossible to hold herself back and do more collateral damage. Shame. Left with little moves, she raised her hands. There's still another day for fighting and eating. But her unwavering glare for the four men never subsided, and she made it clear that her surrender was not for her own sake or theirs'. It was all for who she took the metaphorical bullet for.

Me.

* * *

Truthfully, I wasn't having any of your war movie posturing. Why jump in front of the grenade to save your comrades, when you can throw it back to a cadet you hated? At least you won't be alone on your trip to the afterlife if there is one.

Not to get sidetracked, the Dollars doofuses threw Morton's fork right in our faces. Your fingers budge ever so slightly, and off I go to oblivion! I try to gouge his eyes out, same damn thing! But if you lay yourself bare for them and hand them all your money, our self-respect will kick us in the teeth and these four schmucks could do whatever they want. Damned if you did and didn't, my kind of style.

_("I… I knew no tactics left, how could I know that pistol had only one bullet?")_

_Kurobuta _-chan, remember the first rule of gun safety, "treat all guns as loaded"? You forgot rule 1.5: "...unless the person willing to destroy you gives his." Nah, just made that up. Not that you'd know it.

Chikao's chokehold, oooh, alliteration; I remember it fondly. A huge, sweaty arm around your windpipe like a snake, your lungs' air fleeing your body but unable to breathe in more, your mouth gurgling attempting to catch your breath… I felt heaven's arms hugging me! My _saudade _problem finally answered!

_("Were you satisfied? You could've died and I would never, ever forgive myself for it.")_

Too bad for both of us.

_(*sigh*)_

Try using a napkin next time, you slob. Your sauce stains knocked me out of my story.

_("Sure, sis.")_

Where was I again… hmmm?

* * *

"You have us." Clearing her breath, Mukuro's arms stood up. "Are you satisfied?"

"I'm grinning my face off, you black-haired bitch!" Hotaka responded with the one-finger salute. "All you had to do was pay the damn toll, and none of this would happen!"

The soldier swallowed her rage. "Hold on. I want to make one request: release Junko from your grasp. Do so much as pinch her and I cancel the deal."

"What just happened…" Daiji mumbled, staring at his surroundings before trying to raise himself. "Did we win? Where's Sadao? Does Tanaka know?..."

"We just won, you dumb sleeper!" Chikao exclaimed, dropping Junko. Almost a black blur, Mukuro rushed into her side to catch her. Noticing the bluish hued around her face, she pushed and pushed at her chest hard for a whole minute. She pressed her mouth into hers and blew into her airways after a hundred pushes. "So you'll give us all your money? Not just the tiny purse for desperate folks."

While doing so, faint rage remained in her eyes. "Agreed."

The two huddled together. Their whispers did not escape the soldier's earshot, as she picked up on their hushed talking. Hotaka mentioned something about Daiji's phone running out of batteries, and how Sadao took the only functioning phone with him. Chikao sighed at a 'wasted opportunity' with Mukuro and requested a fair, one-bout hand-to-hand fight to bring more color to this night.

Hotaka declining his request saved his life, but Chikao didn't know it and kept demanding combat until he gave up. Once they finished their conversation, the two approached the sisters and made their demands.

"You said you'll hand us both of your wallets." Mukuro concurred and gave them what they want.

"Spare change, too." Hotaka relished the jingles the coins made when Mukuro's gloved hands dug deep in their pockets. Chikao stood guard, his fist raised against a surprise attack.

"I forgot. Remember when our friend here spared your precious sister? Mercy isn't free, you know that. Most people abuse what's given to them, and none of them know they break the hearts that showed mercy in the first place."

Mukuro knew what he was talking about.

"I know that the moment you walk or run or leave our sights, your mouths will run along to everyone you meet. Cops, Yellow Scarves, even the goddamned Yakuza. You don't know where we are, but thanks to your little gift," The teen rubbed his stolen wallets on her face. "Sooner or later, we're gonna pay you a visit. Trust me, Junko will beg for a hug from Chikao. Understood?"

Before Mukuro could answer, a dot appeared from the road ahead. She dismissed it as a trick of her eyes until it grew larger. The dot hurtled toward them and it became obvious it was anything but. The black spot quickly sprouted a large, dark hook on the tip of the outstretched, shadowy line speeding from the road.

Before Hotaka could comment, his hairs stood on end as the 'shadow' snatched him and his belongings by the neck. Evaporated to muttering desperate prayers under his breath, he screeched for his friends, the Dollars and his mother to save him as darkness carried him away. The last thing Mukuro saw of the teen was his wet pants. Caught along with Hotaka, Chikao tried to snap the hook as hard as he could, but the darkness proved too sturdy for him to break. Tendrils erupted from the mysterious force and dragged Daiji along with his friends. As quickly as it appeared, the shadow hook receded into the dead of night.

Mukuro heard her share of stories from her fellow soldiers and NCO's back in her day. A private blew off his legs after stepping on a landmine and lived the rest of his life in a wheelchair. A newly-promoted commando shot the brains out of a shepherd boy who they mistook as a child soldier. There was the urban legend of a team leader who discovered a village girl nailed into the local swing set, and no one knows what happened to the specialist responsible…

All those tales and more didn't manage to unsettle her. Hearing and seeing them take place helped numbed her from war's horrors. But even when the hook didn't seize her or Junko, it wrecked Mukuro's nerves of steel, who looked left, right and down for any shadow and holding her sister tight when they grow too big. This isn't some CGI trick or a staged illusion, and she survived sleepless nights without seeing things.

This must be it. The Grim Reaper hot at their tracks, seeking the two who have escaped his clutches for too long. Many questions filled her head: will he appear in the flesh; no, bone? Will he be kind enough to offer a second chance once they succeed in his challenge? Or will he skip the pleasantries and release his shadow hook again?

Whatever the answer was, Junko's eyes opened. Her face's bluish hue vanishing, her tired pangs of breath was more than welcome for Mukuro whose fingers never left her pulse.

"Where... are we?" Her sluggish pulse picked up the pace beat after beat until it regained its normal rhythm. "Where did the Dollars go?"

"You're alive. That's all that matters." Junko's voice was a sweet song in Mukuro's ears. Her medium-high pitch covered the rage and dismay she felt from that terrible ordeal, and she desired more of her sister's luscious words.

"Where's my fucking wallet? How could you not get shot or blown up with that kind of attention span?!"

Mukuro thought of how to best summarize everything that happened when she was unconscious. The threat, the deal, the shadow hook…

"By the way, that bastard's hugged me in record time! Nine minutes and 53 seconds ahead of yours on your whole life! God, this day's gone to shit and you have a part in it."

Mukuro thought some more, but then a black blur emerging from the road caught her attention, far more massive than the dot she saw earlier. Accelerating toward them, the blur materialized into a pitch-black motorcycle and came to a screeching halt when it reached their alley. The bike's exhaust emitted smoke that smelled like a mixture of diesel and digested hay.

Seated was the same rider the policed chased earlier from earlier. Dark jumpsuit, yellow feline helmet… they had an unmistakable profile. On their hands was a black sphere where the wind passed through.

Mukuro's heart raced, dreading at what they might do next. Junko's eyes sparkled, her mind shuffling through endless possibilities.

Far from the scene was Sadao on his apartment two blocks from where they are, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing the rider.

"Are- are you the Grim Reaper? You gonna cut us to ribbons like you did to them?" Like a fangirl meeting her idol for the first time, Junko squealed. "Or you'll give me a handy, dandy notebook where I write-"

Taken aback by the question, the rider pulled up her phone and typed away. "I get that a lot nowadays, but of course not! Here are your belongings." The black sphere levitated above the two before dissipating and dropping their wallets along with a barrage of clinking coins. "Try not to travel to unfamiliar areas at night next time."

"So this means we're going to the Korean diner, then?"

Before Mukuro finished her question, the rider sped away, its screeching tires coinciding with the sound of a hundred hooves galloping at once.

A/N:

Long time, no upload.

Not that I gave up on the story, but I had a lot of responsibilities to do during the 5-month delay, and as my apology, I present a day in the life of the Queen of Desp- erm, Fashion.

"Why are the Dollars portrayed here assholes?" Yes, the Dollars don't exclusively contain people like Hotaka, but a massive Internet-only group would have bad apples roaming around. Plus, they're not blind to these types.

Please leave comments if you're interested, and thank you for still tuning in, readers!


	3. What's Wrong with Taking the Back Street

**DOLLARS**

Password: b*****o

**ENTER**

* * *

_►► Setton has logged in._

_►► Woka has logged in._

_►► Kama has logged in._

_►► Bakeneko has logged in._

Bakeneko: where's my salary as the Dollar wrangler?

Setton: Ahh

Setton: Oops

Setton: Come by my place? 04:00 P.M.

Setton: but I can't just post my address here to some stranger

Kama: there's such a thing as a Dollar wrangler?

Setton: Kinda

Kama: meh

Kama: I've wrangled worse

Woka: whoawhoawhoa (o_O)

Woka: like Golgo 13?

Kama: if you put it that way

Woka: holy shit, have you killed a mob boss?

Bakeneko: go to RP Nation, Kama

Kama: no

Woka: seriously, what's the highest job you've done?

Setton: …

Setton: should she even be here? She's kind of creepy

Kama: i can be anywhere i want to be

Kama: Woka 10 million yen, Fukuda Financial Group's CTO

Bakeneko: she can stay

Bakeneko: keep up her RPing

Bakeneko: Setton yeah you can DM me your address

Bakeneko: not like this edgelord will track you down and slit your throat in your sleep

Bakeneko: while listening to nitro mega prayer

Kama: brings me to mind a low-level contract

Kama: was some NEET who lived alone with his μ's merch

Kama: the screaming vocals couldn't block out the reeking sweat that drenched his maki nishikino pillows

Kama: and socks filled to the brim with… fluids

Setton: uh, this sounds TMI

Setton: Did you have to specify that?

Kama: it isn't the most rundown spot I've been to

Kama: hmu if you really, really want someone to go away

Kama: we can discuss the contract's terms later

Woka: I know he might be RPing in the wrong chat

Woka: but there might be an undercover cop in Dollars rn (″ロ゛)

Woka: and I don't want them kicking down our doors and shouting about conspiracy to murder or something

Woka: so yeah keikan-sama

Woka: we're just practicing for our roleplay server, no literal murder history at all, no sir

Kama: i have a few pics for proof

Woka: ...which are photoshopped ┐(￣～￣)┌

* * *

Policemen typing on the chat.

Celty felt needles prick her non-existent nerves. She buried her camera on tape, but she knew law enforcement was watching her, somehow. A background program may have been logging her keystrokes. A police database stored every link she clicked, post she made and friend she contacted. Kinnosuke Kuzuhara's men kept failing to catch up to her in Ikebukuro's freeways, so their new course of action had to be entrapping her for a cyber-crime charge.

_"Bakeneko, idk if I should DM you on Dollars rn,"_ Setton's letters whizzed across her phone. _"getting a private browser first"_

"you should've got that VPN I recommended you. I think the cops still use Windows XP crammed with Internet Explorer plug-ins"

_"I wanna be on the safe side. brb"_

Celty explored the app store for viable choices, and combed through their reviews to make sure. IntraBrowser; too expensive. DeepFrost; too clunky. HideMe; compromised a long time ago. While searching at the Tech section, an ad blocked the store from her view and stuck around for 15 seconds.

**_"_****_はじめまして~! _****_Alter Ego Alpha_****_: a breakthrough in chatbot technology! Database of 600+ conversation topics! Learns new responses through smalltalk! _**

**_Upcoming patch: Moral System prototype - weighs decisions input by the user and judges them whether they are right or wrong. _**

**_Earn ¥1,000 a month by signing up as an early alpha tester NOW!"_**

"An advanced A.I. I can talk to? Curious." Depending on the client and package to be delivered for said client, her pay allowed her to afford amenities such as clothing and room repairs. Bonuses from CEO's who looked past the shadowy mist emanating from Shooter bagged her RPG games to play through on her off-time. She didn't worry about not having enough for food and drink, for obvious reasons.

But it didn't hurt to have a part-time job, not when Celty had something on top of her wishlist: a rare Blu-ray collection of the famed four-episode fantasy anime _Hope's Shadow_ series. Written, directed and animated by an anonymous person, the show gained traction online for its experimental style, which brings you out of your body and into the realm of Elysia itself' according to one reviewer. Copies of _Hope's Shadow_ were hard to find anywhere; it wasn't until yesterday a few appeared on .

It cost ¥27,500.

Her biggest salary as a courier was ¥3,300. By 27 months - two years, three months, assuming inflation was constant - someone would have already bought Hope's Shadow. All that effort for naught.

The job listing didn't mention skills in C++, C#, Python or anything, so she didn't have to devour a shelf's worth of programming textbooks. All she had to do is to talk to this Alter Ego Alpha program for hours on end until the developers told her to rest. With video chat capability, there was no need for her to go outside that often.

With no second thought, the Headless Rider tapped the ad, and a form screen popped up. She typed the usual necessary information, completed the usual captcha puzzle, and waited out the usual time it took to process her request.

The next set of questions made her raise an eyebrow.

"What do you look for in a significant other?"

"What are your best qualities? Weaknesses?"

"Are you ready for a commitment right now?"

"How often do you want to have sex with your s/o?"

"Do you get jealous when other people are around them?"

_"What does this have to do with A.I.?" _Filling in her address was giving too much information, now her dating preferences, of all things? Different possibilities ran through her mind; some were rational, some weren't and some were in between.

First, this was the caramelized scent in the cheese catching her smell. Within a month, she'll stumble across a young man at a cafe, who'll seem friendly and dependable. He'll visit Shinra's apartment from time to time, get along with him swimmingly through video games. Finally, when she least expects it, the mousetrap is sprung, her hands handcuffed as the undercover cop takes her away.

Second, nothing much will happen. She'll get in, gain extra money then buy the anime if it's still on sale. Should it be out of stock, spend it on worthwhile endeavors. End of story. She hated to admit it, but this didn't have much in the way of high-speed motorcycle chases, nor fellowship with colorful personalities. Taking this part-time job meant signing away her free time and real-life interactions to feed a program verbal responses.

Celty wished for the second to happen, but the fears of a sting operation gnawed away at her mind. That September, still fresh on her mind, made it easier for unsavory users to sneak into the site. A lack of a block button caused trolls to ruin most discussions at first with gag links and non-stop copypastas until the sysops coded one in. Today, only the cleverest and most discreet thrived in the chat, concealing their true selves with pseudonyms and half-truths. A perfect environment for tech-savvy police to track down and arrest Dollars like her with no one in the chat the wiser.

_"What if I input traits in a man most people want? That'd make it harder for them to spy on me with this site."_ Celty's fingers hovered above her phone, waiting for the form to close before moving back to the app store. _"This company would store my answers anyway in a database for their Alter Ego thing, so I might as well be cookie-cutter in my choices… Wait, why didn't I think of installing a private browser first?"_

Give a company her personal data willingly, or give it to the cops unwillingly? Celty was too preoccupied with writing down her preferences to care about information ethics. "Caring, committed, can geek out over their favorite unsolved mysteries podcast" were the top three things she looked for in an SO, which the ad accepted after she tapped Submit.

When she thought about who embodied those three perfectly, her fears of Javertian law enforcers whisked away to nothingness. She knew only one man who could do it. Someone who relieved her anxiety, voiced reason to her irrationality and reminded her that everything was indeed what it seemed.

Even when Shinra Kishitani, at times, blurted out facts like about a koala's eating habits, and the number one threat facing its species. It wasn't dingoes.

* * *

Bakeneko: have u tried Ghostery yet? It's open-source, ad and tracker-free

Bakeneko: Setton?

Bakeneko: i have physics classes later

Woka: Kama, u should try to write a manga about your RP

Woka: u'll be the next Naoki Urasawa! (⌒‿⌒)

Kama: nah

Kama: most people today want cute boat girls and princess piggles

Kama: they don't want realistic depictions of mercenaries and edgy anti-heroes tbh

Woka: it's all about taste I guess?

Woka: i do like my snk and shinsekai yori

Woka: but people love hope and optimism to win out in the end

Woka: i do as well

Kama: besides, idk if i have time to sit down and write this all down

Kama: never been much of a writer or an artist

Woka: try it out some time

Woka: it's fun!

Woka: the process though isn't

Woka: killing your darlings and all

Kama: killing your darlings… fascinating

Bakeneko: while waiting for Setton to get their VPN

Bakeneko: Kama, to give you a headstart, here's a writing prompt:

Bakeneko: a huge monster emerges from the swamp and travels to this city

Woka: does the mahou shoujo protagonist fall in love with it? perhaps it'll be her sidekick. ( •́ ⍨ •̀)

Bakeneko: its sludgy feet thundering across the road

Bakeneko: everyone shrieks and runs away from the creature

* * *

_Except for one person._

People's jaws fell off their skulls at the mention of hooks in car doors, slit-mouthed women and dogs with human faces. Most of the time, this was justified; the alternatives were to die a grisly death or receive a lifetime's worth of curses. Japanese students knew better than to lurk for too long in forests or do risky rituals they read on the Internet.

Too few dared to wear the anemic feet of these creatures. Of course, there were creatures like the redcaps who desired nothing but slaughter, and often had to be stopped. But Celty knew from her vast experience that they weren't the bulk of the supernatural. It was simply that the Irish constructed entire mythologies from awkward interactions with them centuries past. Pookas, as it turned out, had little arable land in their homes so they relied on farmer's harvests just to survive. Details have since long left her memories, but dreamlike stills from her unconscious portrayed them using wooden fishing poles and nets.

Perhaps this 'swamp monster' was no different. She witnessed it on Shinra's TV set: a creature sprinting around the city carrying a blonde-haired young girl futilely wrestling with her captor. A reporter who confronted it with a microphone got drenched in foul-smelling sludge, and the camera had to cut away as the monster charged into the team in the scene. Minutes and another channel later, a man with strange hair rubbing a crystal ball brought up the Black Rider of Ikebukuro; Celty thought of switching to the cooking channel when he connected the Rider for the swamp creature.

_"...anyone who's read up on mythology knows that these riders show up when a disaster is about to brew. This is it, folks! The moment all of us have been fearing for! Start hiding under your beds and pepper your home with talismans, 'cause the Dark Realms have waged war on humanity today! The swamp monster is but an advanced scout for these underworldly forces, drawn to primal auras caused by overutilization of palm oil…"_

Celty pressed the plus button on her remote.

The next channel featured a white-haired girl in a yellow smock applying the finishing touches on, strangely enough, a perfect portrait of her body from her tracksuit down to her boots. She noticed a gourd mask adorned with colorful feathers in place of her helmet, and the shark teeth-studded shaft on her spear which had a small moai sculpture for its tip. She would normally take offense at such an absurd depiction of her, but she instead respected the girl's rigid devotion to her craft, and how, at least, it wasn't some hideous caricature from a horror novelist's imagination.

_"A few more strokes of Tahiti red to the left, and it is finished! Atua's messenger to the world! Nyahahaha! The daymarcher's been at Ikebukuro for a while, but he has not shared words with me. None of my fellow disciples have as well! Whatever the reason may be, this is all Atua's test; if so, a miracle is bound to happen once I've finished my gift to the daymarcher. I have faith he will be impressed with this! Now, we go to the Words for Atua segment! Ms. Orihara asks: if you meet the daymarcher in person, what will you ask him?"_

Flipping the question around: what would Celty ask the swamp monster if she meets him in person?

The answer was, to her, surprisingly simple. Reason with him, calmly ask him to stand down and talk things out. Hear his problems out and calm him. Show him the wonders of good hygiene, and make him feel welcome in Ikebukuro. Neutralize a monster not by wooden stakes nor cold iron swords, but by shaking hands and kind deeds. Gods know what she would have done had she not met the people she knew now.

These all assumed he hadn't hurt or killed anyone. If the creature did, Celty had another approach, one that involved shadows and orbs. She wanted to wish she didn't have to, but she knew better than to tempt the Morrígan.

Her phone rang, the familiar tone causing her to grab it and place it at where her ear should've been. She had no plans of changing the ringtone anytime soon. What if the swamp monster had a soft spot for J-pop? They could easily bond over that, for a start.

* * *

Mazenda: Nakura?

Mazenda: it's happening again

Mazenda: it just doesn't end

Nakura: what happened? tell me

Mazenda: so i prepared mom's favorite sushi

Mazenda: squid sushi

Mazenda: i put them on the table and she just looked at me

Mazenda: when i threw the trash out, the sushi was there with my mom's ring

Mazenda: GOD idk what to do at all

Nakura: damn, that sucks :'(

Nakura: my dad wasn't there when i was born, wasn't there in my birthday

Nakura: and my mom, she kept yelling at me "WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR FATHER'S EYES!?"

Nakura: i never asked for dad's eyes

Nakura: i wanted mom's instead; they were sparkling green and had 20/20 vision

Mazenda: it feels strange talking to you at times

Mazenda: never had the guts to talk about this with my class

Nakura: let it all out, mazenda. I'll never leave your side wherever you go

Mazenda: idk if i should say this abruptly

Mazenda: but fuuck this

Mazenda: why should I talk about my feelings to anyone else?

Mazenda: my class doesn't perceive me

Mazenda: my parents don't

Mazenda: yet you do

Mazenda: you're like a diary but better

Mazenda: you write back at me and tell me what you honestly feel

Mazenda: in a way, we're each other's diaries

Mazenda: only the two of us know the words etched in this digital parchment

Mazenda: i never felt more secure with you

Mazenda: don't freak out, but i wish we'd meet sometime

Nakura: back, i just reheated my sushi

Nakura: mazenda, i've been too afraid to say this for long. but, what you said earlier got me thinking

Nakura: what if we vanished together?

Nakura: no one notices us anyway, not like anyone will miss us both

Nakura: this is our best revenge, our ticket to the afterlife meant for us

Mazenda: let me think about it

* * *

"Go to 3 Chome-1-45 by 10:00 p.m. You'll meet the package and a few of our friends there. When you do, I'll wire ¥2,500 to your account."

"Got it." Replying back, Celty reared Shooter and rode out of their garage.

Other than Shinra's, she texted the person on the other end more often than most of her friends. Every time he talked to her, her word choices were silky and flowery; one can easily mistake him for a romance novelist. Flowery best described this particular person; nice to look at from a distance but leaves with you a rash if you touch it.

As she zoomed through the freeway, she clashed with her superego on why she took jobs for Izaya freaking Orihara in the first place. The incident with the Novoselic embassy which he boasted of to that day cemented the info broker as a walking red flagpole in her eyes. Further stories she heard about the man had the same climax and conclusion: the dealmaker reduced to a shame-filled wreck and Izaya getting away scot-free.

His pay was excellent, better than more legitimate clients. He was many unpleasant things, sure, but stingy wasn't one of them. Granted, he might have underpaid people under his employ, but Celty wasn't aware of who they were or how much their salaries were. Hope's Shadow was a priority, but she didn't want it to turn her into a wealth-hoarding monster.

Almost every business had invisible "Dullahans Need Not Apply" signs in their doors, so her opportunities were limited. Even if a more forgiving company hired her, Kuzuhara could have the police issue a warrant of arrest against her, possibly implicating her boss with obstruction of justice. Her employer had two options: fire her and let the cops cuff her on the way out or join her in jail.

She silently hoped Izaya's next pranks were less harmful than the last as she delivered kompromat to his targets. But a strong hunch told her to reserve her hope for something more likely.

At least only a few cars travelled the freeway by 8:30 p.m. Most passengers by this hour were either clubbing or shopping at night markets. Being headless meant car exhaust or air pollution can't harm her, so the boulevard was all hers that night. She still wished she had holes a nose plug could fit on when smoke-belching trucks were around.

Kuzuhara's fellow bike cops were strangely missing, too. Thought of as a fixture of Ikebukuro's highways, they chased Celty down when they caught a glimpse of her, rushing through alleys and back streets just to fine her for overspeeding. He's had it in for the dullahan, so it was unusual to take a nighttime ride through the streets without him not far behind.

Who could Kuzuhara be pursuing right now? Was it Dragon Zombie? Jyan Jyaka Jyan? The Crazy Diamonds? Or another speeder who's as fast as she was, maybe even faster? She didn't care about the answer; she rode on at the max speed Shooter can manage, looking only ahead and at the sights around her.

Celty wove through cars and light posts on her path. Knowing all of Ikebukuro's corners like the back of her gloved hand, the parking garage Izaya sent her to wasn't all that far from her home. She took mental snapshots of the places and buildings she passed by: Higashi Ikebukuro Central Park, the local 7-Eleven chain store, the baseball park where Kuwata and his fellow Swallows practice, and a broken vending machine at the middle of the road that caused her to take another way. The impromptu audience gathering around this site combined with the missing streetlight telegraphed imminent danger on the area.

Narrowly dodging a trash can flying her way, Celty sped off the other direction. She turned just in time to see a blonde, bespectacled man in a bartender's outfit from afar pitching two bikers in their underwear in a fastball. He then picked up the fallen streetlight and swung it at the mob of thugs, knocking them into the sky. Their numbers routed, the remaining bikers fled into the back streets and the strongman caught his breath, laid down his weapon and silently cursed at himself as he walked away.

_"You're working for the man the bartender was chasing._" Her superego waited for this exact moment. _"When will you find a better client?"_

Celty decided to follow those bikers' leads and take a shortcut. She put the brakes on Shooter and steered him through the city's cramped alleys. Far from the highways where she can accelerate to Shooter's limit, the customers and restaurant signs scattered around the back streets forced her to slow down and wait for people to pass. (Un)fortunately, some people who saw her went out of their way and let her through.

They still kept their eyes on her, a few wondering where the Black Rider may go next or praying they didn't do something that day that offended it. Not one of them drew breaths or had their hearts beat due to her presence. Celty refrained from concealing herself with pure shadow to deter cameras. From a distance, she saw two motorcycle cops inside Hanamura's enjoying their fill of ramdon and sushi. Before one of them caught what appeared to be a pitch-black bike in his eyes' edges, she was gone.

_"Just an occupational hazard for being an urban legend brought to life."_ Celty yearned for the day everyone treated her more than an interesting, if not creepy sight around this city. That day kept getting pushed back, but she's made progress and had hope it'll come. _"At least the highways were less judgy."_

Passing over Russian Sushi reminded her of all the times Shinra ate with her in their kitchen. While her physiology allows her to go without food or drink for eternity, missing out on what truly was the best sushi around the city took a toll on her. One day, she'll finally taste it and judge it for herself. That day just wasn't now yet.

Just as she exited the alley, the destination loomed over her. The parking garage, a pit stop for salarymen, mobsters and teenagers wanting some intimacy. Anyone can greet her inside and anything will happen, anyhow.

There was no better microcosm for Ikebukuro. Celty paid the entrance toll, and entered.

* * *

Bakeneko: thank God for the PM system

Bakeneko: sorry i couldn't stop by your house, got stuck at calculus class

Bakeneko: Setton u there? Have you installed Ghostery yet?

Setton: Are you familiar with AI?

Setton: I haven't yet, not much time

Bakeneko: kinda

Bakeneko: why are you asking me this all of a sudden?

Setton: I took up talking to an AI for a part-time job. Weird, I know

Setton: how should I converse with it?

Bakeneko: like you would with anyone? Or you can just clown around with it tbh

Setton: why?

Bakeneko: it's just a chatbot, some time-waster

Bakeneko: you ask silly questions and it prints silly answers

Setton: idk if the developers want it

Setton: i remembered something, the AI will have a "moral system"

Bakeneko: how's that supposed to work?

Bakeneko: would it tell you to make the train run over one person or the five?

Setton: I'd stop the train in the tracks myself

Bakeneko: that's pretty selfless of you, but you'll die or be a vegetable

Setton: guess I'll have to find out, and thanks

Bakeneko: tbh it's strange for an AI to think morally

Bakeneko: i'm no computer expert, but everything it does or says had to be coded in

Bakeneko: it has to be _that_ intelligent to think about whether a deed is right or wrong

Bakeneko: be careful of what you say to that AI

Bakeneko: don't be the reason why it enslaves humanity

Setton: *shudders*

Setton: I just needed the money, I never thought this job would be that dangerous

Bakeneko: lol, just joshing you there

Bakeneko: AI right now can't be that intelligent

Bakeneko: there's no tech for that yet

Setton: wait, ever heard of the singularity?

Bakeneko: sounds familiar, is that some obscure sci-fi movie?

Setton: from what I understand, it's an exponential leap in tech. We'll create an AI so smart we no longer control it and it starts inventing stuff we haven't conceived

Setton: human society would be changed forever

Bakeneko: yeah, that'll stay a sci-fi thing

Bakeneko: most people don't want that kind of AI

Bakeneko: they're too smart to program something that'll soar out of reach

Bakeneko: virtual popstars and girlfriends are as good as we can get

Bakeneko: heh, should an AI develop human-like understanding, it's gonna PM fellow AIs and ask about what they like to do in standby mode

Bakeneko: as AI become less AI and more human, the more they'll want virtual hugs, dates, you get the drill

Bakeneko: cybersex gets a new definition

Bakeneko: e-condoms will dominate amazon

Bakeneko: though I wonder where baby AIs will come from

* * *

The first floor was exactly as Celty expected a parking garage would be. The ceiling LED's held off the darkness that would have blanketed the building. SUV's, motorcycles, Tesla cars and vans laid across each other, their occupants away on their own business. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air as she and Shooter searched every nook and cranny for the 'package'. They went from spot to spot, looking behind and under the car; she barged in on restrooms and scanned the stalls inside.

They found nothing of value, except for a car with gold-rimmed wheels. Togami family member or just a rich guy flexing on his fellow drivers? Celty bolted out of the spot immediately, not caring about the owner. Something about that car made her toes and fingers squirm, before moving to the rest of her limbs. Looking sideways, upward and downward at her surroundings, she fled for the second floor.

Her jerky limbs calmed down the moment she climbed up the ramp. She held her chest, the butterflies inside it coming to rest. She went back to work, circling the floor for the 'package'. Nothing showed up. There wasn't anyone on it, not in the restroom or inside cars; aside from a few station wagons and motorcycles, most motorists skipped this floor for a reason she's unaware of yet.

After minutes spent fruitlessly looking for the 'package', she went up the next floor, and they went to work again. From a distance, she saw three men congregating near a van; the bespectacled man in a two-piece suit held a lit cigarette, the one with the purple sweater took watch while the other whistled a tune while sitting.

"What are you doing there? The package is here, guy." Celty's visage interrupted the man's song. "Pick it up so I and these guys can get paid."

"Kanazawa, are you sure this is our guy? Something about him gives me the heebie-jeebies…" Muffled sounds came from the back of the van. "Boss told you we'd be here, right?"

"What do you have?" Celty glared towards them. "Or more precisely, _who _do you have?"

"Some stray puppy we picked up from Third Street." Celty noticed how stilted the timing of his speech was, like he only put down the script minutes ago. Still, his voice came across as genuine, perhaps due to emphasizing certain words. "She was weak and whimpering when we found her, and luckily for her, we gave her a few treats. We don't know nearby pet shelters, but I figure you do, so if you'll excuse us, the puppy's thirsty and-"

"That wasn't a dog." The screams of "Nakura! Nakura" dulled by a muzzle gave their ruse away. "I hear very well those aren't dog sounds."

"Of course it's a dog. Have you ever met one before in your life?" Kanazawa moved near the secret compartment in their van. "Maybe you're a cat person? Look, I'm not one myself and neither is Asanuma here; for me, they make me sneeze all the freaking time and they scratch a lot-"

"Cut it, dude. I'm n-neutral on the cat-dog thing; they're both overrated. Nothing beats horseback riding on Mt. Fuji." Asanuma heard a snort coming from the pitch-black bike. "Dude, get your bike checked. Something's wrong with the engine."

"I don't think so." Celty remained still, her eyes fixed on the men and their 'package'. "Of all the things here that have anything wrong with them, it isn't my bike."

"_I'm_ a cat person, continue and you'll pay for our dinner later." The kidnapper in charge leered at Morita, then focused on Celty. "Mysterious motorcyclist, by your lack of interest for our package at hand, and your insistence on this petty dog debate: Asanuma, Kanazawa, smoke him!" At his signal, Kanazawa charged at the biker, his tire iron ready to leave deep blows at his rival.

"Keep pets off of this!" Before he could land a hit, Shooter's front wheel broke his tire iron and bumped his front face. The wheel, vrooming after collision, battered Hanazawa's nose and upper lip again and again, only to stop when it hurled him into a nearby pillar. "Stop dodging my questions. Where's the 'package'?!"

All bravado evaporated from the two when they ran for their van, leaving Kanazawa behind for the biker. Celty got out, ignored him and kept walking towards the 'package', the captors shuddering at her shadowy boots' footfalls that went louder step by step.

"A-are his feet that huge?!" Asanuma sprinted for the driver's seat, only catching his breath when he sat and laid his hands at the wheel. "What else is Boss _not_ telling us about this guy?"

"Stay in that seat, dammit!" At the back of the van, Morita's skin hairs jumped as the mysterious motorcyclist rushed towards him. His mouth reduced to shrieking and eyes transfixed at the rider, his hands searched for anything, just _anything _that can get this freak off their backs and leave them alone-

**ZAP!**

Celty felt her body shut down as it froze in mid-air before falling to the ground. While she slowly regained control, the glass-wearing kidnapper stepped out of the van and smiled at what he just did.

"You're not the first rabid dog I calmed down. A pity you're not a cat person; I could only dream of the wonderful conversations we could've had." Morita took his time preparing his verbal salt shakers. "You know my problems with dog people? You personify the urge to bark and bite the behinds of people minding their own business. When I defend myself, people look at me like I kicked a toddler in the face!"

"Reality check," Morita closed the rear door. "This city is not for dog people. This is our turf, our food bowl, our litter box. We hunt who we can, we take what we need, we defecate where we want; nature's rules. The food chain doesn't look kindly at people like you-"

During his rant, he didn't notice Celty getting up. He was busy extolling cat people's supremacy to feel her hand grab the back of his head.

"STOP." ***slam***

"TALKING." ***slam***

"ABOUT." ***slam***

"CATS." ***slam***

"YOU MONSTER!" ***slam***

Celty was neutral towards cats when she drove past them or saw them play outside, but this man nearly made her despise their existence. He had a young woman bound and gagged, shoved into their car for ransom or motives she refused to imagine for one second. But someone who wasn't as enthusiastic with cats as he was was a bridge too far. She still didn't believe she had restraint dealing with scum like him.

_"Are other cat people like him? Maybe not, but you never know." _She had no time to ruminate on the answer as Asanuma drove away. Leaving the unconscious Morita and the blood splatter on the wall behind, Celty hopped on Shooter and gave chase.

Hitting the gas as hard as he could, the kidnapper darted down the second floor. Celty was right behind, never veering from the van's direction. She knew pounding their boss' face to a purée gave the remaining goon a head start, and she had no idea where he'd go if she lost sight of him. It made her dispense justice, so it felt good being in Kuzuhara's position for once. The pursued became the pursuer.

Asanuma never looked back the whole ride, but he gave in and wished he didn't. His van's shadow was shaped like a van. The mysterious rider and their motorcycle's shadows should've looked like them.

Instead, the silhouette below them swelled in size, assuming the appearance of a stallion devoid of color, its thundering gallops signaling an omen of doom. The ear-piercing roar widened his eyes enough to touch his eyebrows. His fearful yells hushed by unearthly sounds, Asanuma stepped in the gas to escape this... _thing, _as he knew no other words to properly describe it.

The spectral horse continued to run after him, its pitch-black outline dimming the light it touched. His right foot remained on the gas pedal pressed to its limit before failing.

Asanuma's eyes intensely watched the black colors around his surroundings, dreading these shadowy tendrils aiming right at him. He drove through the alleyways and backstreets, ditching Boss' directions; amidst his panic, his desire for self-preservation overpowered the ¥20,000 offer for the package.

Celty and Shooter never let up their pursuit, and would chase him to the ends of the earth. Morita and Kanazawa were far away, and he had to wait for the rider to come within range of his seat to whack it. He didn't want to imagine what this thing would do to him when he brakes. Reaching Yamaguchi and renting a boat to Fukuoka was tempting, but the rider showed no signs of exhaustion and will most likely follow him there. With no other option, he slotted into reverse gear, closing his eyes and letting the van handle the freak of nature.

As the van began slowing down, Celty exploited this to speed up only to meet the rear head-on in full speed. Unable to swerve and dodge the van, Shooter whinnied in fear and attempted to slow down his charge. With a resounding crash, the van threw her and her bike in the air, before they skidded the road as they both hit the ground with a thud.

"I.. did it. I did it! Damn right, I did it!" Looking at the rider's crumpled body, he was beside himself with joy, he wanted to dance in the streets and look like an idiot on a random person's camera. Before that, though, he wanted to get a look at the punk who spoiled their gig. "This is why you don't mess with Yuuma Asanuma around these parts! Get that through your dense skull..."

The rider's black jumpsuit ended at the neck. The cat-eared helmet was far from where the bike crashed.

_"Holy shit." _He stopped himself from vomiting and soiling his clothes. But there weren't any blood splatters on the road. To make sure, he checked the helmet; there was supposed to be a head inside, with ears which would've heard his gloating.

* * *

Woka: I had this manga idea for years now

Kama: surprise me

Setton: Yeah, show it to us

Woka: it's a romantic comedy

Woka: the girl is a motorcycle racer who had it all

Woka: until one fateful day where an accident made her lose her head

Setton: ...tbh i wanna see where this is going

Woka: she lives! Actually, she still has part of a mouth so she can still eat or drink

Woka: but she can only do basic stuff since most of her brain is gone

Woka: meanwhile, the boy had a massive heart attack

Woka: they had to replace it with a powerful battery so he could live

Woka: but it's wholly artificial and he has to charge it every 2 days

Woka: so you have a headless girl and a heartless boy who meet each other

Kama: morbid, but I like it

Woka: thanks! (◕‿◕)

Setton: a pretty unique plot; you should definitely get to work

Setton: but what bugs me more than anything about your story

Setton: how can the headless girl think?

Setton: how can the heartless boy feel?

Kama: How can the heartless boy bleed? how can the headless girl shit?

Setton: do their souls compensate for their missing organs? Or is it a testament to humanity's trait that allowed it to survive for millennia: physical adaptation?

Woka: i hate to give out spoilers, so you'll have to read it for yourself! (≧ڡ≦*)

* * *

"_What the _**_fuck_**_ is this thing?!_" A peal of alarm bells rang as his mind processed the creature in front of him. The shadowy, equine apparition he saw earlier following the rider gave away its inhumanity. If _that _was the rider, what did that make its motorcycle? Motorcycles didn't snort or squeal, much less have spectral monsters for shadows.

Yuuma wished he'd never cross paths with oddities like this 'rider'. He snuck back to his home when men in bartender suits walked the streets and took alternate routes to not have to drive past haunted houses. But this was Ikebukuro; as much as he wanted to drive away with the package intact, these monsters never went down easily. The rare moments he worked up the guts to watch horror movies taught him that lesson.

He didn't have kerosene, silver bullets or holy water with him that night. The monster was headless, so chopping it off was redundant. Deep breaths and a Russian Sushi coupon helped him to set aside the lack of monster-slaying weapons and finally conquer his fear of the supernatural. This was the moment he waited for a long time. Putting his pocket knife to good use, he would stab the monster straight through the heart and whisper prayers of divine judgment to vanquish it from this world.

Yuuma got too carried away with his power fantasy to notice the thing get up. Black mists emanating from its stump, it stood in perfect posture and directly faced him. The black of night flowed from the stump and coalesced into the shape of a scythe in which the sharp end shimmered.

"Do…" His tongue fumbled, but he aimed his knife right at its chest and started running. "Do you hear me, monster?! You think you can w-wander around and ruin our job? You're not welcome here! Your kind should get the hell out! All my life I bit my nails b-because of monsters like you! But I ain't gonna be afraid of you a-anymore! This is for all the wet briefs I had every night because -"

Celty's scythe interrupted his charge and sheared his abdomen. Forced into his knees, Yuuma stared at his stomach before blacking out, his moment of bravado halted unceremoniously. She put her helmet back on and moved to the back of the van.

* * *

_"That scythe could separate an elephant from its legs. You could've sent a message to these kidnappers."_

Then she'll have become worse off than they were. Celty already was no better; the difference between her and those scum was who hired them (not discounting her suspicion that they're one and the same). Though she wished they were more common, it wasn't kind, elderly grocers or starry-eyed romantics who paid well for her services. They were color gang bosses, corrupt start-up CEOs and their ilk whose income was inversely proportional to their morals.

At least she didn't seize young girls from their homes, tie their mouths shut and lock them in a box, so she had an advantage over those common criminals. Her own methods were less coercive in nature, discounting the overall sense of dread she tended to give off on more superstitious people. In a few cases, she took off her helmet and promised to pay for their therapy costs when the deed is done.

The scythe was merely a tenth of her power, and she exerted more effort in holding herself back against Asanuma. She wouldn't care less about the man, but the thought of leaving two halves of his torso on the streets made her hurl out vapor. The gang he belonged to would track down where she lived, and make Shinra suffer the same fate as he did, possibly thrice worse. While punishing him like that would've made her feel good, the cons outweighed the pros.

That power at that level might have been unable to slice through tissue paper, but it was enough to break a human's will to fight.

She retrieved the human-sized box from the van and laid it on the floor. Cutting through the seals, Celty found a girl with brown hair tied in pigtails inside lying on her back. Her mouth was sealed shut with a handkerchief, and her hands were tied up with ropes. The constant shaking made it harder to free her without accidentally cutting her.

"Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" Celty removed the handkerchief with her left hand and blazed across her smartphone with her right. "Did you know who they are?"

"I-i thought he was my friend, at first… " The girl regained his composure as she saw her savior. No sound emanated from them aside from the taps from their phone, typing her words. "But he had no idea how we talked in chat… His words were so empty and meaningless…"

"Whose 'friend'?"

"Nakura."

Celty's superego interrupted her thoughts. This was her chance to opt out of this whole operation. To let her conscience win out in the end. To tell this young lady to run back to her home, block and unfriend Nakura and stay off the Internet for a month at least.

_"What about Hope's Shadow?_" It's just an anime, for Dagda's sake, there are more important things in stake here than-

"Come with me." The superego gave up, for now.

"Are you- are you one of them? Why should I join you?" The young lady thought to walk out when she was out of sight. She had trust broken that day; she knew better than to blindly follow someone.

"The guy over there who kidnapped you? Look at him." Celty pointed at the downed man a few meters from them.

"Did you kill him?" The young girl asked, looking away exactly a second after.

"No." Her superego was satisfied, but her id was disappointed. "Just come with me."

"O-okay..." The young girl hopped on her motorcycle, silently thanking the rider for saving her.

"_You get your Hope's Shadow, block him from your contacts and find another client."_

_"Where's the fun in that? How can you pay for Your Name, then?"_

Celty motioned for her id and superego to shut up and not interrupt her driving.

* * *

"I'm ordered to drop you here. Be careful, and watch your steps." Celty dropped the young girl and zoomed away.

The building was six stories high from the outside, and nothing distinguished its exterior from the rest in Ikebukuro. Rio Kamichika thought about her decision for a day, then a week. There was nothing left to stop her as she entered the door. She had the ticket in her hands; all she had to do was pay the fare.

As she expected, there were no security guards on the first floor. No one entered in or out other than her. The absence of people inside was a crushing reminder of her solitude in life, with no companion other than her reflection displayed by mirrors she passed. Going up the second story, there was a psychiatric clinic in the front, but the door had a 'The Doctor Is Out' sign plastered. Not that it mattered at all; she wouldn't have understood her plight and maybe just pelt her with positive thinking cliches she's heard for too long.

The third had a marriage counselor's office. She'd have loved to run home and tell Mom to consider going to one, but silent treatment would've been her positive response.

She'd have to contact Dad _and _not suffer through hours of arguments.

Nothing caught her interest on the fourth and fifth floors. She never thought of herself as an interesting person, anyway. She could've disappeared at those floors and no one would've noticed. With the monotony of walking the stairways, she fully believed this building was constructed for the sole purpose of mocking her. The box was infinitely more preferable than this hell in a building.

But a few more steps and all of Rio's suffering ceases. She penned her final words to Nakura alone to refuse her mother the satisfaction of watching her fade to nothingness. A charity of her choice will inherit her laptop, clothes and personal belongings, according to her will placed in a secret drawer. She guessed she needed to bring a light load once she set sail on Charon's boat down River Styx.

Opening the door, night's breeze greeted her, the first for the last few months for her life. The cool wind chilled her skin and, strangely, eased her mood. Could it be the accomplishment of having reached the peak after climbing the mountain? Or was it the fact that she can hear the ship's foghorn from a distance?

Before she can figure out her emotions, Rio noticed someone emerge from the dark. His face shone through the night, catching her attention. His coat was as black as his hair, though brown fur lined the former down to his hips. His dark brown boots traipsed towards her, anticipating her arrival.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Mazenda. Come, let us have a little talk before we start our journey together.' The man had his right palm open from when he revealed himself.

"Who are you?"

"We chatted a lot in the past months, so I guess you've got a clue who I am." His voice was calm and gave off the vibe that he was someone she could pour her heart to. He showed a slight smile, telegraphing his gladness to have seen her.

"You're Nakura, aren't you?" Friendly he might've seemed, she figured to carefully discern who she talked to. She'd love to erase the events earlier, but that was a lesson she'll never forget.

His smile grew slightly.

Rio's anxiety faded, and joy sprung up from her face. She was talking to her only friend and loyal confidant! In person, no less! This beat all the time she typed and pressed 'Enter' on the chatrooms.

"You said we were gonna disappear together, didn't you?" A sliver of her enthusiasm grew back. "I hate to judge, but you seem… a bit detached about it all."

"I've been thinking about my decision for a while now." His expression remained static. "But I needed to be there for my friend, since this city isn't the safest, to be frank. Did they hurt you? Who brought you here?"

"Aside from a few bruises," Rio's eyes moved to where he was looking at, then back at him. "I'm fine! Yeah, mostly fine. And some kind Samaritan gave me a ride."

"How very kind of them, I'd say. It must've been terrifying, what they did to you."

"It sure was…" Something clicked inside Rio. "Wait, how did you know about my kidnapping?"

"Easy, I had these losers pick you up." Dusk darkened Nakura's face, making his words ominous. "Clever, huh?"

Rio gasped, quickly covering her mouth.

"I also arranged for that Samaritan to save you."'

Rio's face started sweating, and her eyes began tearing up. This was Nakura who told her to share everything she felt to him. This was Nakura who assured her to hold out hope for the day everything will be okay.

This was Nakura who took the trust she gave him and broke it to a million pieces in front of her.

"Pop quiz: should you take the plunge, where do you think you'll end up? Is it the pearly gates above," He pointed up. "...or the infernal circles below?" He pointed down. "Or would it be eternal nothingness, you mummified in a tiny box for eternity? Take your time, Ms. Mazenda. I can wait."

"I… I think I-" She never cared about the destination. Let the gods, if there were any, decide her fate. Let Nakura prattle on and on about afterlives she had no idea about. She wanted this to end. "Perhaps, I would end up somewhere I deserve."

"To sum up everything that's happened until now: You were scared when you were kidnapped despite all of your chats telling me you wanted to die. You were angry, I bet. Should you defend yourself, you'd be denying the part of you who didn't believe in self-preservation. So you decided to give up, and throw yourself at fate's hands. But now you're safe and sound, you're thrilled you didn't die, or get hurt."

He's lying. He had to be lying. Nakura's just making her question her reality, attempting to warp it in his favor. She knew what she wanted to do and that was good enough for her. To think after all the time they talked, a false friend like him had no idea, or worse, was misleading her about what she felt!

Then she recalled the scenes from earlier as if they were from a high-quality video clip. Her punching at those big kidnappers and the box and failing. Her screams before they taped her mouth shut. The peace of mind, though short-lasting, when the all-black rider came in to save her from that ordeal.

She now had no idea what to believe, much less how to respond to his questions.

"Let me ask again." Nakura stood in front of the rails, facing her. "...did you really think this through? Do you wanna grab the ticket or not?"

No answer.

"I knew it! Frankly, I was never into your teenage melodramatic hullabaloo on chat. I just wanted to see the look on your face when I cut through your defense mechanisms and dished out the terrible truth. I took notes, though, so thanks for that."

He spaced his revelations to force her to process them all one after the other, as she did. He fashioned her diary entries into knives he threw back at her.

"Why are you doing this?" She tried to hold back her tears. "We were best friends, weren't we?"

"You seem smart, so I'll explain it to you. Simply put, I love humans. They're the most interesting creatures Mother Nature could offer. Oh, when I mean humans, I don't mean _you _specifically."

She wanted to slap him after hearing that. But she feared his reprisal may be two times as painful, so she relented.

"They make the best stories of all. I'm not talking about manga, anime or movies; I'm talking about The Epic of Gilgamesh. Ever heard of it?" No response came from Rio. "I don't think they taught you this in school, huh. So, Enkidu's spirit told Gilgamesh that the entire realm is like a cave full of worms. The people arrive there with the same condition they died from. A man killed by a lion bled as he walked, and a leper twitched like he did in life. Hopefully, they'll have full body casts on the other side. Come with me."

The way Nakura vividly described that tale made Rio imagine herself writhing in pain, her bones popping like popcorn as she dragged her fragile frame around. It was hideous to think about, but it's all a story, a legend crafted by a civilization imagining what was the hereafter like. It was as valid as Japan's landmass being formed when the gods dipped a spear into water.

Or was it? She can never know what laid beyond this life unless she took a leap of faith. Paradise or perdition could await her. It was a game of Russian roulette with her body as the round and a six-story ledge as the trigger. And Nakura held the pistol.

He stepped on the ledge, his coat flowing with the wind. She gazed at the alley floors below and she felt it gaze back at her. She heard it whisper back at her to come and embrace its asphalt.

"Many people have jumped off the very same spot you're in right now. From this height, the fall will kill anyone." Nakura pointed at a section of the alley, and she felt like her head hurt at the sheer height of her spot. "See that? There was a stain on it the other day. There was another a week ago. Wonder what happened to them?"

Rio didn't look at him as her eyes focused on what was below her.

"Their blood got wiped up until there's nothing left. I bet they thought they'd make the headlines the next day, be the main topic of conversation. They got their wish, good for them. Then a well-known actor dies, or a natural disaster strikes a town, and their names vanish from the papers. They thought they were special, that no one else in this world understood their trouble. What makes you different from them?"

"W-well, I-"

"I'm not your shrink; spare me your rationalizations. Your mom dumped your sushi in the trash along with the ring. She's got her own secrets, your dad has his own, and you as well. Did you spare a few minutes from your endless self-pity and share your true feelings with them? That's probably why Daddy left you two for someone better!"

"D-don't say his name." Hearing that trigger word, Rio's hand instinctively moved to slap some sense into Nakura. "W-where would _you _go after you die, huh? I don't think it's gonna be paradise."

Nakura burst out laughing and grabbed her hand, causing her to nearly fall from the top if he didn't hold her. "Ms. Mazenda, I didn't know you have quite the tongue! But I'm simply not in a rush to find out. Death gives us a ticket where the destination is a blur, after all."

Aside from her right hand which clung to Nakura, her feet are the only body parts still in the building. Her whole body trembled at the floor's continuous calls. She thought she'd have a smooth journey, but she never foresaw the bumps right at the start.

"Want me to wish you _bon voyage_ on your trip?" He kept holding her hand with its strength, not eager to pull her back yet. "Yes or no? You told me you wanted this journey. I'll leave it up to the gods to decide where they'd send you. Hope they're real and merciful!"

Half of Rio's mind told her no. The other said yes. But it wasn't in charge as she hung high from the building. Her sense of self-preservation inside her fought back with her mounting anxiety, causing her to debate letting go and trying to move back with all her strength.

Before she responded, Nakura pulled her back to his embrace.

"You get me now? I gotta bounce, but before I go, I gotta say you've got this strong need to take the back streets in life. You're like the girls I talk to, seeking permanent solutions for short-term issues. A boy they like has another, now they're writing poems Pushkin would've loved to read!" He skipped up the stairs, taunting her all the way through. "Try that instead. Thanks for proving to me you don't really want the trip! _До свиданья!_"

Rio was all alone at the rooftop. She didn't know how she managed to snap back at Nakura, but she did. She wished she knew Nakura better so she could spit more vicious insults at him. As much as she hated to admit it, her mom had one point about internet friends: they can portray themselves differently from what they are in real life.

But doing so would validate everything he said. She's just some brat acting out because her parents didn't coddle her enough. Her whole ordeal was a petty phase everyone better and braver than she endured. Anyone could've made that jab; it was a small gust of wind compared to the typhoon he subjected her to.

She had no one left to turn to: not her mother, especially not her father, and **fuck **that Nakura bastard. He came into her life at its nadir and related to him his own familial struggles. It was possible they were complete lies and her joy at making a new friend blinded her to his deception. When they finally met, instead of commiserating with her, he stabbed her in the back and twisted the knife further minute after minute.

She went back to the ledge. Rio wanted to hurt herself for being gullible. Rio wanted to hurt her father for abandoning her. Rio wanted to hurt her mother for neglecting her.

Rio wanted to hurt Nakura for tormenting her. She'll never make it to paradise, no, but she would endure columns of hellfire just to see him join her there when his miserable life ended. Even if the gods condemned her to an eternal void, she would never have to worry about him again. At the unlikely chance she survived, he will have to devour all the words he skewered her with. Wherever she deserved to go, that wasn't up to her.

She heard the alley below, demanding she grace its domain with her presence. Its sweet offers of peace and stillness were too much for her to resist. The alley below will put all her suffering to rest. The alley below will take off life's burdens from her shoulders. All she needed to do is to come to its face and kiss it. Follow the paths of those who it set free.

The boat's foghorn bellowed from a distance her eyes cannot see. She closed her eyes and submitted herself to gravity's mercy.

When Rio opened her eyes, she turned her head in all directions to look for clouds or angels. She found none. Fire and brimstone were noticeably missing as well. This was strange.

She woke up wrapped by shadowy tendrils, but they didn't surround her whole body. Nor did they squeeze her too hard, rather they felt like fuzzy blankets she loved as a kid. They were a few feet, give or take two or three, off the ground. The alley below was silent, denied its next victim. Somehow, its silence unnerved her more than its whispers. The tendrils which cushioned her falling body slowly descended towards the floor. When they touched the ground, they dissolved back to nothing.

Rio inspected her body for injuries. She was alive, for starters. Her back was okay. She can still move her arms and raise her legs. She found not a single skid mark on her whole body. By the laws of physics, she should've been another stain on that pavement.

Yet she still stood up. Turning around, she saw the same yellow motorcycle helmet hitched on the same pitch-black jumpsuit extending their right hand.

"You… you saved me again! But why?" Both of Rio's hands held the rider, never letting go. Something else would have to come between them and separate the two.

As earlier, the rider never uttered a single word from their lips. But their phone's words still shook her: "Because the world isn't as cruel as you think." They held it long enough for the message to stick to her consciousness.

Before Rio thanked them, the rider ran to a nearby backstreet, the last she saw of her savior.

The world wasn't as cruel as she thought, or so she said. She heeded her mom's warnings not to stay outside for too long at night. She boarded her windows and closed her doors when she's alone at home. She kept herself from becoming too close with others or they'll hurt each other.

Until she met Nakura- forget it, that name is a non-entity as far as she was concerned. That being said, he saw her in a way no one else did, both in the chat and in real life. All his compliments were insincere and rang hollow, yet one theme recurred from his verbal lashes at her.

The trip.

She ran away from home to get inside the boat headed for an unknown land. She never expected she would run into rocky territory at the ticket line. As much as it pained her to say it, Nakura had a point: if she was single-mindedly devoted to her desire, she would've accepted her fate and rejected the rider back in the garage.

Rio was truly alone on the rooftop. He tore his ticket in two and egged her to board Charon's boat. The alley below eagerly waited for her to spring its trap. She believed she had all the reason to vanish, and none to look back.

Until the rider came along as a welcome U-turn - again. They could've abused the trust she gave them after rescuing him from the kidnappers. They could've let her take the leap from the ledge.

Twice they did not.

The world was marginally less cruel than Rio thought, but there were still kind people in it. Walking through the streets, she realized maybe that was all she needed. Someone to treat her like a human being, not some unwanted baggage or social experiment.

The streetlights shining above her helped, illuminating her way and casting out the darkness from her path. As she walked, she recalled everything that transpired before that day. The fights. The slammed door. The discarded sushi. _Him_. The rider.

All the talk of afterlives and paradises gave her questions: was the trip worth it when she's all alone? Was it the right ticket, to begin with? Why was she so eager to take the backstreet to the other side with a stranger she never knew personally?

Poetry could be a great format for her answers. Before penning her first lines, she hailed a taxi, planning to talk things through with Mom first. The road back to recovery seemed a winding highway full of debris hazards, but it was a welcome first stop nonetheless. She now had a map to guide her.

Someone shone a light at her dark night of the soul. Now, it was time for her to be the streetlight to someone who needed it. There was nothing left to stop her as she entered the door. She had a new ticket in her hands; all she had to do was pay the fare.

* * *

"I wasn't aware you had a vigilante streak. What an honest surprise!" Izaya stood at the meeting spot he ordered Celty to go to when the deed was done: the backstreet near the building Rio tried to jump from. "You'd be a great shadow puppeteer. I'll arrange a meeting with Arisawa-san sometime."

Celty said nothing, resisting the urge to throw her phone at his face. He might've caught it and handed it back to her, so there was no point.

"But I'm guessing you also needed that money, so let me remind you that you willingly dropped Ms. Mazenda off our agreed location. Had you not spotted her, you'll get to live with it for the rest of your unlife. Anything for that sweet, sweet yen, right?"

"The last person who jumped off that building, was it you too?" This was her burning question since she eavesdropped on his conversation with the girl. They were too high above her to speak audibly, but she picked up something about the spot below them being a place where suicides happened the most. The cicada's clicks combined with its reputation gave her chills when she drove past it.

The question brought a guffaw from Izaya, spitting saliva into his coat and Celty's suit. Straight answers from him were out of the question, and his laughter made Celty wince inside her helmet. She didn't have a face and she still felt it wince from wherever it was.

"Am I a _shounen_ anime villain to you? Are you gonna make a speech about how the power of friendship will save the day before unleashing your ultimate attack at me? Kame..." Izaya cupped his hands and drew them to his side, "...hame..." pantomiming an 'ultimate attack'. "...ha. Pushing girls off buildings isn't my style at all. Shouldn't you be grateful that at least Ms. Mazenda's alive and safe?"

"No thanks to you." She doubted he had the girl's welfare in mind. His nonchalance showed otherwise.

"You can ask her yourself. I didn't tell her to take the plunge. I'm a believer in choices, Celty. If somebody truly wanted to end their lives, I wouldn't have stopped them at all."

"You said something to drive her over the edge," Celty pressed. "She wouldn't be in there without you."

"I simply said what I thought she needed to hear. What she did with the facts was none of my business." Izaya countered. "You're not seeing this like I do. Think of this as her test of faith, of resolve. Beings like you love pulling those tricks to us, right? Turning princes into frogs, pumpkins into carriages? And I'm a bad guy when I do your thing."

"Just so you know, I'm not the faerie you see in Disney movies." A shadowy mist emanated from her phone hand. "They're kid-friendly for a reason."

"As I suspected, though I never thought you loved Cinderella. When you have nobody else in life to turn to, you think of travelling to the other side. Then again, your kind has all the perks of immortality, and your side is one big forever party. Humans don't." Izaya frowned. "We're stuck with the snooze-fest that is life, and we try to liven each other up everyday. That's what friends are for. You helped give Ms. Mazenda that opportunity, so you should be shaking my hand and pat me in the back." He extended his right hand.

Celty dissipated her mist, but didn't extend her hand in return. "No, I don't think I will. You have yet to give me a valid reason to trust you."

"Trust me. Few people here will." As Izaya walked away, he whipped out his credit card at her. "Check your bank account tomorrow."

That wasn't a valid reason. She was no mercenary, but then again, she needed money for expenses not related to _Hope's Shadow_. Speeding away to the main street, she wondered if A.I. coaching paid more than this current gig.

On her midnight right, shrill sirens snapped her out of her thoughts. Half a dozen revving engines behind her forced her to stomp on the gas and take the back streets again. The shadowy strands making up her skin stood in their end and her adrenaline kicked into over.

Kuzuhara's men patrolled the streets that night, and they spotted her again. Only one thought remained, however: is Alter Ego Alpha more peaceful than this?

* * *

A/N: Disclaimer: If you have suicidal thoughts, call 1-800-273-TALK, or the equivalent hotline for your country.

Another disclaimer: Stay inside, wash your hands, don't go near large crowds, wait for further instructions from your local health officials.

After a long, long time, chapter 3 is here! To people who still waited for the next update, here's your reward. A Durarara! story isn't complete if our favorite headless dullahan isn't a focus on it. So far, it's following the first episodes' beats, but with the Danganronpa characters in Ikebukuro, you never know if it'll be the same story told.

Personifying parts of Ikebukuro (like the alley in this chapter) came from Nando v Movies (I recommend his YT channel) praising the Joker movie for its marvelous set design for Gotham, saying the best Batman movies portray the city as a character.

I do hope I portrayed delicate issues such as suicide and depression respectfully. I welcome all critique and responses so I learn more how to do better in the future.


	4. Anatomy, Gender Relations, Entomology I

"You lied! You said we'd be safe!" A young woman's yells echoed everywhere.

"We will be, don't worry!" A young man replied, panting but spacing out his breaths. "Just follow me and don't ever think of looking back!"

What started as an errand morphed into a horror show where the two were cast as hapless protagonists. They made their way through the wide catacomb, watching their steps to avoid tripping over puddles and fatbergs. Holding the girl's hand as they ran considerably slowed both the boy and her, but they pressed on and kept their distance from their pursuers. The lamps that illuminated their path grew dimmer and dimmer, the last few in varying stages of disrepair. Eventually, darkness enveloped their way forward, and the boy turned on his cellphone light.

"_They sealed this off for a reason." _Other than their footsteps and the occasional droplet dripping over their heads, the continuous noise of what sounded like giant insects' legs scraping behind them provided the score for their escape scene. They checked their skin when they felt bugs crawl on them only to find none. They checked their skin, again and again, hoping it was just paresthesia from all the running.

"I knew this was a b-bad idea… I should've been more a-assertive and warned you to not go! Please forgive me!" The girl tried hard not to gaze at cracks in the walls for too long. Every hole they passed could've been a nest where bullet ants can pop out of. A day's worth of Tylenol cannot numb the pain these little monsters can dish out with their mandibles.

"Then we'd miss out on life!" The boy replied, keeping his eyes at vents, doors, or ladders in front of them. "Keep running until you see an open door!"

Though this sewer was out of service a long time ago, the door handles held up well despite being rusted with age. Most vents were too high for them to reach and ladders led to nowhere, and they had no choice but to move on.

Whatever was hunting them, the boy couldn't help but praise their stamina. Give or take, they've been running for 30 to 40 minutes straight, and more than one time the girl could've fallen over if the boy didn't firmly hold her hand. Their legs felt sorer and heavier as they moved, having no time to stand still and rest.

Yet the beasts never lost their scent nor turned their sights on new prey, a fate he wished befell no one. At every turn they made and crevice they snuck into, the monsters followed the trail they left behind, their keen sense of smell seeking the two from the start. Falling into the water failed to stop the creatures, their legs sloshing sewage all around when they waded through.

Turning left, they found a crack in the wall big enough for them with a few crates inside. Fitting in, the two hid behind the biggest crate.

Looking at the crates, an idea among many popped into the boy's head.

"See that? Pour it all over our clothes and our skin." The girl nodded, seeing the crate labeled "DISINFECTANT".

"But I have a few wounds on my left leg…" She pointed at the leg with bandages wrapped around it. "They haven't healed yet completely. Alcohol will just d-damage it… and slow their healing. "

"Yes, of course. Skip them." The boy poured alcohol on his coat, pants, and shoes and scrubbed his skin with what was left.

_Hypothesis: these creatures leave pheromone trails behind them, attracting their fellow beasts to our scent. Masking our smells hides us; when they lose track of ours, they have no choice but to go back to their spawning grounds._

"Hey, if you're having difficulty with this task, just sit still and let me apply alcohol to your-" Stepping in a puddle he wasn't aware of, the boy slipped and skidded to the railing, missing the girl on the way and holding on before he fell.

"Oh, look at that. Guess I slipped." The boy reiterated the obvious.

Not long after, he heard multiple legs scraping the sewer's cement walkway. His cellphone light, miraculously tucked in his pocket, shone on large shadows moving closer and closer towards him. He deduced what they were from their shapes and sounds, and their appearances confirmed it.

Ants. 20,000-times-bigger-than normal ants. As tall as his waist and lower body combined, their baseball-sized black holes for eyes stared at him. They marched one-by-one in a line chasing them for nearly an hour. Now, their antennae writhed waiting for him to flip over and die to carry his corpse to their nest. With their large mandibles that can (hypothetically) bore holes in wood, it wasn't hard to imagine them inside their nest as winter snacks a few months from now.

While the crates shook along with the girl behind them who let out a muffled shriek, the giant ants sparked something in the boy. He'd have carried the girl with him and ran to safety on the surface but would've missed out on this rare sight. An undiscovered ant species of unusual size, adapting to the sewer system through natural selection, or a mad experiment gone wrong. Letting Kairos' hair pass by would be a monumental waste.

His mind formulated ways to escape, and ways to procure one of those creatures. Contrary to popular belief, there was no single scientific method. The list of steps taught to freshmen students was a gross oversimplification; sometimes, the greatest inventions known to man came about by accident with no observation made at first. Wilhelm Roentgen discovered the X-ray when he saw his bones on a fluorescent screen illuminated by cathode rays, for example. Despite all this, the first step - asking a question - had been helpful for him and his career.

_How did we get here?_

* * *

Shinra Kishitani didn't love operating on people.

This didn't mean he refused to take in human patients at all. He needed all the money he could get to afford the city's astronomical rent per month. Despite being unlicensed (or, in this context, because of it), local gangs paid for his services, delivering their injured fellows to his room for treatment. While this precluded him from working in high-class hospitals, he had no complaints about his current occupation and didn't mind being stuck there for a long time. Receiving a wad of money per operation proved too tempting to go legit.

But it's always been a gangster with a broken leg, a getaway driver with a bullet in his shoulder, and a guy whose appendix was about to burst. Shinra accomplished these tasks with great precision, too precise he thought of himself more like a machine when he performed these procedures. He knew which bones are connected to other bones, the name of each arm muscle, and the exact location of internal organs. When he saw one human body, he saw them all. Regardless of color, gender, and zodiac sign they had two eyes, 206 bones, and about 100,000 hairs in their head.

Often, he wished that instead of a bruised overconfident ganger knocking at the door, it was a _futakuchi-onna _with a cavity-filled second mouth. Or a teke teke seeking a lower-body transplant. Or a tanuki whose family jewels didn't shine as bright as before. Someone possessing an atypical anatomy would be a great challenge for his skills. He looked forward to the stories they'd tell while he operated on them.

"From what I recall, four days ago, she walked home from school drinking her Starbucks on one hand and texting her friends at the other, and bumped her head on a stop sign hard enough to land her in this condition." Lying on the table was a young woman, her hair partially obscuring a gaping wound in her left forehead and a crack in her frontal bone below the wound. Tubes and lines plugged into her body; an ICP monitor checked the pressure inside her head, a Licox measured her brain's temperature and its oxygen levels, and an IV line trickled essential nutrients and electrolytes through her right hand's veins. Her eyes closed and consciousness gone, it was a relief that she inhaled and exhaled from time to time, or he'd have to borrow Dad's ventilator. He wouldn't deny his son's request, but this development made his job easier. "Textbook case of traumatic brain injury. So far, the cerebrospinal fluid leak has subsided. Did I get my prognosis right?"

"Absolutely! We need to open up her cranium and retrieve the clot… Do y-you think I can handle it? I've worked on a case or two like this b-before, and I didn't do a bad job at them, too..."

Mikan Tsumiki had only been with Shinra since a week ago. A fresh intern from Lapis Lazuli Girl's High School, her tripping into a medical bag and spilling all its contents built and reinforced Shinra's first impression. Mikan's behavior was a good reason for firing, but her encyclopedic knowledge of medicinal drugs and practices argued against that decision. She tried to improve her behavior after saying four sorries per mishap, too.

"I've seen your portfolio, and to my surprise, you're skilled in what you do. That I can say." Mikan felt warm inside, tears filling up her eyes at his compliment. Positive reinforcement achieves better results than negative reinforcement, according to a study Orihara-kun shared with him. That, and he can mop the floor to wipe away her tears way less than usual. "Plug in the electric razor so we can make the incision."

"O-on it!" Upon knowing who his patient was, Mr. Kishitani lent his son his CT scan room and basement operating room without a second word. To keep the whole matter discreet, Shinra hired a private driver who transported them to his dad's house in an ambulance colored like an ordinary van.

His father's basement emergency room made Shinra's own look like a back-alley malpractice magnet by comparison (which, to be honest, was at times). Medical equipment shimmered with the glint of alcohol, looking fresh from the supply depot. The room's high-voltage air ionizer which purged dust, smog, and other allergens combined with the powerful ceiling air conditioner released the best cold wind one can enjoy on this side of Ikebukuro. The doctor inhaled the contaminant-free air and exhaled no vapor; the temperature edged the fine line between cold and freezing-cold. Tsumiki showed far more coordination, managing to walk across the entire white floor without tripping and hitting the MRI machine or Shinra.

The results revealed a fracture in the left frontal bone and a medium-sized hematoma below it. Left unchecked, the blood clot can lead to brain herniation, and in the best case, lifelong seizures. Removing part of the patient's skull to expose the brain was standard procedure, but a risky one. Prod the wrong part of the brain, and she might wake up a radically-different person. Not one for impromptu lobotomies, Shinra opted for a newer approach.

"You see this spot?" He pointed at the brain's CT image, showing Mikan the location. "What we're gonna do is drip tissue plasminogen activator-"

"That's Activase." Mikan raised her hand like a student who knew the answer before the teacher was done asking. The electric razor whirred on her other hand, hair locks falling to the ground as it moved around the patient's head. "Is it c-correct? I've prescribed that for stroke patients, and they do get better after a while…"

"Precisely. We're gonna apply it directly to the clot for a week, check if it shrinks in size." Shinra went to the medicinal cupboard. His dad didn't skimp on medicine; anesthetics, antibiotics, analgesics, aphrodisiacs, and the like laid in rows by classification and purpose. Using a chair out of Mikan's reach, he got down with the drug needed for the procedure and some ketamine to numb the pain.

"I've got the t-PA with me." Shinra handed her the other vial. "Inject this ketamine into the IV before we start."

"She's u-unconscious already… Isn't that redundant?" His assistant turned off the razor and lathered the spot with antiseptic to kill any germs.

"She might not feel pain, yes, but we're still bound by ethical restraints to apply, for her benefit, required measures, avoiding the twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism. We don't want her to wake up to us drilling a hole in her skull, do we?"

"Of course... why didn't I remember that? I'm sorry for being so so s-stupid!" Mikan held her hands together, pleading with him to give her another chance.

"I don't think you're stupid, at all, frankly. Clumsy at times, sure, but never stupid." Shinra explained.

"I'm sorry for being so clumsy!" Mikan held her hands tighter, her eyes turning on the waterworks. "_ Fourth time today,' _he noted. "You're probably wishing you had a-another assistant better than I am!"

"I'm content with you around, and I can't see myself with another assistant who isn't you." He had his limits; he chose his words carefully to not exacerbate his assistant's turmoil. At times, he wished she grew a spine (and a healthy sense of balance) and focused on her work. He wasn't a jerk nor a bully, and he hated to make her cry, so he kept looking for the right words to vocalize his wish. "Apply the anesthetic, and try not to administer too little or too much. This isn't a stable where the horse gets on a tizzy without his hay."

Mikan did what he just said; she pushed the IV pole containing the ketamine bag and inserted a syringe at the patient's left hand. Blood squirted from the site as she wrapped it with cloth to staunch the wound. As the anesthetic traveled through a tube to the veins, the nurse laid her hands at the patient's pounding chest like a bass drum on a rock song getting to the first verse. Shinra was too busy cleaning his scalpel and specialized air drill to notice Mikan's hands around the patient's head, her drool flowing on the hospital bed.

"Place another on the scalp, Tsumiki." The assistant nodded, piercing it with another syringe for ketamine to drip through. "The Greeks sure were ahead of their time, weren't they? They had a fancy word called _'trypanon' - _drill bit in their language - that's where we got trepanning from. Granted, theirs was part-exorcism ritual, part-rite of passage, and part-therapy, and they had Circe's herbs for anesthesia in their time, but here we are, practicing what they did in the past. Oh, and Hippocrates came up with the word 'anesthesia' itself. Should I ever go legit, and that's a big should, I'd love to work at Evangelismos Hospital in Athens, home of the greats in Western medicine."

"I know you're quite busy and I'd hate to interrupt…" Finished with her task, Mikan sat on a nearby chair with its legs taped to the ground. "But can I ask you a question?"

"Didn't say you can't." The back-alley doctor brought down his tools on the table. "Neophytes like you still have a lot to learn."

"Phew, what a r-relief… but the symbol of medicine s-scared me as a kid…"I've seen that rod with a s-snake coiled around it ever since, and while it's not scary now, I'm more confused a-about it more than anything... "

Ophidiophobia wasn't completely irrational. Fear might have been the reason why primitive man survived to this day. The brave succumbed to the venom slowly, their strength sapped out of them.

"Snakes bite people… kill people… but somehow, they're on the World Health Organization flag… am I not g-getting something here?"

"The Rod of Asclepius, you ask? There are stories about that." Once the anesthesia has set in, Shinra slit a portion of the patient's scalp near the hematoma. "It all started with the god of the same name. He showed mercy to a snake, probably fed it grass, it's lost to history, so in return the snake shared its secrets of medicine. Another theory was that he killed a snake while he's in jail, but another snake came with a herb in its mouth, which it placed on the dead snake, bringing it back to life. Either way, in Greek culture, serpents are sacred bringers of wisdom and resurrection, and it makes sense that thanks to Asclepius they were leagues above other civilizations who burnt crops to their gods to heal the sick, not that I think it's completely superstitious; I'm no agnostic atheist like a dear friend of mine. Word of advice: be nice to snakes; if you hear hissing near you, just run away and don't try to step on it, or if you're the risky type, offer it a rat or a slug and expect a shiny prize in the end..."

He stopped to notice Mikan standing, her face blank. While she was still processing every word coming out of his mouth, an IV catheter flowed Activase to the burr hole in the skull. The patient, laying motionless for a week, kept her breathing, and at one point the nurse heard her yawn. While not a definite sign of soon recovery, he knew the clot would shrink into nothing with a little help from supportive therapy. She will wake up and recover after months upon months of relearning how to move and speak.

"For the coming days, we'll administer lisinopril and ibuprofen to control blood pressure and relieve inflammation, respectively." After the procedure that only took six to eight minutes, he washed his hands and placed one of them on his forehead, breathing deeply. "Mikan, move her from time to time. We don't want her skin riddled with bedsores."

"Okay, doc..." She gently flipped the patient to her side to not cut loose the IV tubes she's strapped to. "About Ascelpius' snake…"

"Yeah?"

"I-I made sure to memorize all of those words to not mishear what you said… but… but..." Mikan clasped her hands together, holding back her tears that started to fall. "I'm sorry I couldn't learn anything from you about the topic! I'll work on my c-comprehension skills next time!"

"I guess my limbs have a mind of their own. My head shared with you the rod's story, but they performed the entire procedure like I'm not around! That does happen, and it's not your fault. But now... I understand my one true love more." Shinra's pupils expanded and his cheeks turned red when their image appeared in his mind. "I believe I have, in fact, walked a mile in her jet-black shoes."'

"One true… love?" His love interest's vision vanished when Mikan's cheeks scrunched and looked to her side, wondering who he or she was. He noticed a digital thermometer placed on his mouth tool. "So t-the snake in Ass Cletus- no, no, Asclepius represents phantom limbs? But snakes don't have l-limbs!"

"Sorry again!" The thermometer on his mouth fell to the ground, causing Mikan to pick it up and turn it on again and again. After a few tries, she placed it on a bottom drawer, tears falling from her cheeks. "But to summarize the snake story, I believe the Rod of Asclepius means renewal through knowledge. When snakes outgrow their present skin, they wriggle around until their old skin loosens and molts. It's our job as medical professionals to make our patients shed their old, diseased skin and grow new ones! Metaphorically, of course."

"Now I understand." The nurse's eyes dried up and she wiped her tears from her cheeks. "Nobody h-has explained it to me before. I can't thank you enough!"

"Don't thank me. We have a lot to owe to snakes; without them, we'd still be naked vegetarians."

Before Shinra finished his sentence, Mikan untied her ribbon behind her neck, loosening her apron. She then raised her pink shirt, showing her midriff.

"Reverse Eve, huh?" The underground doctor figured out what she was about to do. "Let me fix your clothes, medical stains are a pain to clean."

"Gee..." Mikan blushed. "T-thanks a lot! So this means you d-don't like me in that pose?!"

"I… can't say." It wasn't that he _disliked _Mikan as a person, but he never found her attractive at all. Her peculiar habits didn't elicit a response from him, neither positive nor negative; her kind just wasn't his type.

No humans were.

"Tsumiki, I'm gonna take a leak, so watch over the patient for me and report back if anything strange happens." Must've been the Pineapple Soda he had earlier. Strange his bladder felt like a water balloon about to burst only now.

"I won't d-disappoint! I swear!" Mikan went near the hospital bed as Shinra ran inside the restroom near the sink.

"_As a human, that's kind of a disappointment by itself._" He was wise to keep it to himself and not have to see how she'd react to that statement. True, he's seen her perform the Heimlich maneuver on a burly bouncer, spitting out the lemon slice lodged in his windpipe. It's nothing special, though; so can he. Any trained medical personnel can do that.

But she always listened to Shinra's orders and followed them to the letter. She'd be on her knees when she messes up a procedure and tries _really _hard not to repeat that mistake. He wished he'd given her the drill instead and he'd focus on dripping Activase to the clot so she'd feel a sense of accomplishment. She was too valuable of an asset to let another doctor take from himself.

Mikan was no dullahan, he was certain of that. One of those day-offs that rarely came by in his job, he'd strike her up for a conversation about anything.

"_O- o- o- onii-san..."_

A whine came from the patient's bed just as Shinra zipped his pants back up. The voice didn't sound like Mikan's, nor his. Must be his overactive imagination, so he brushed it off as hearing things. He didn't sleep watching over the patient, after all.

"_Where- where… am I?"_

The patient's speaking! He knew the coma wouldn't last long because she kept breathing, he just didn't expect she'd regain consciousness this fast! An unexpected, but a giant step towards her recovery!

"_No! No, I shouldn't b-be here… am I dead? Who are you?! The hell is t-this place?! Where's the cheerers-"_

Comatose people were drifting in and out of consciousness; some vaguely remembered bits and pieces of conversations from people around them. He heard patients tell stories about sitting in white rooms with black curtains, ascending to heaven only for a god to reject their entry and other bizarre and outlandish dreams he took note of. He ran out of the restroom to the bed, excited to hear what she and heard during their state-

The patient's eyes remained closed. Checking her pulse, her heart rate was normal and she still breathed, but tapping or nudging failed to produce stimuli. But he was sure the sound was the patient's. Was this a trick his ears played on him?

"I heard her talk. I know I haven't slept for a day, but I'm pretty sure I heard our patient vocalize something." Shinra raised his eyebrows. "That'd be a wonderful development for our treatment."

"I know you're a h-hard worker, and I appreciate it well… but sleep d-deprivation is bad for you!" Mikan's arms wrapped around his right hand. "Your immune system gets w-weak, and you'll find it harder t-to concentrate in surgeries!"

"Thanks for the concern, but my sleep pattern is part and parcel of the job." The nurse never failed to disinfect her hands, so he didn't brush her off. Not that he reciprocated her affection. "My hours of sleep are directly proportional to the time it takes for the patient to recover."

He looked at the IV's and noticed the ketamine bag was above half-full.

"Didn't you apply the anesthetic to the patient already? That seemed quite redundant." Shinra asked.

"Wasn't t-that ketamine? I'm sure I held k-ketoprofen in my hand..." She realized she didn't hold ketoprofen in her hand. "Oh no! I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry… I got the two mixed up!"

Tsumiki was being Tsumiki, for lack of a better word. Fortunately, the ketamine she accidentally administered didn't reach overdose levels. Still, a slip-up in this field can cause complications, or worse, be fatal for the patient. "Tsumiki, I've gotta say you're an excellent assistant a doctor could have, but..."

"I'll be really, really careful next time, D-doc Shinra-san!" Mikan smiled. "At least her heart rate is still normal, so she'll be fine i-in her state!"

"_She better be really, really careful. I'd hate to have my severed hands sent to Dad in the morning mail."_

The nurse walked to the restroom to wash her gloves.

"_Wait."_

"Tsumiki, before you disinfect, what was the cause of our patient's brain trauma, again?"

"Uhh…" Mikan stopped at her tracks. "She walked home from school and bumped her h-head on a stop sign. It happens all the time, d-doesn't it?"

"_That sign must've been composed of steel." _Accidents like that, unfortunate as they were, happened too common. Maybe she was late for her favorite _mahou shoujo _anime or had a ton of homework. Maybe this was a cover-up, and digging deeper wouldn't be good for Shinra's job - nor his life. Tsumiki had her flaws, but she almost _never _mishandled anyone's IV bag like that.

"That settles it. Word of advice: look at the medicine you'll administer at the patient." Whatever really happened, it wasn't his job to find out how his patients received their injuries. Shutting his mouth, cutting and stitching, and taking the money was. "Lastly, please don't give me a reason to fire you." His smile masked his words' tone, which prickled Tsumiki with shame.

"I won't! I won't! I'll do my super, d-duper, extreme best for you!" Mikan placed her hand on her fluttering chest, slowing her breath.

"_Good. She'll think twice before making another mistake." _This was the least offensive way to tell a worker to stop messing around.

"Before I rest, I don't think we've deepened our professional relationship with each other." Shinra sat at the chair he dragged to his position. "We're a team, after all, and stories are a great way to establish needed rapport. I'll take the initiative in breaking the ice: what was your most memorable case?"

"Students, for your homework: do a 1,000-word-essay on the life and deeds of Oda Nobunaga. Summarize his life story: from his birth and rise to power to his death. Once you're done, write an essay about this great man's legacy on modern Japan. Please submit both papers at once tomorrow." The homeroom teacher shut the door and left after the class bid him farewell. All stood up, except one Tenko Chabashira.

"_Great. Man. Two words that should never be put together in any context."_

He unified Japan, sure, and he painted its fields with the blood of women and innocents doing so. It brought to mind a book about the Enryaku-ji Temple, specifically the chapter where Oda's forces slaughtered everyone inside. She almost felt the flames peel away her skin when she read how monks burned to ash at the hands of the shogun's men.

"_Can't I write an essay about Ching Shih? Tomoe Gozen? Lyudmila Pavlichenko?" _There were dozens of women rulers, soldiers, and everything else who weren't in many history books. They've slain their enemies, conquered nations, and built great empires as men did, even better than them. As far as she knew, the patriarchy doctored the textbooks and minimized women's role in history to keep her fellow girls down.

On her paper, she saw her piece on Gozen write itself letter by letter. It listed the fearless samurai's feats and exploits, from collecting seven heads from warriors in one battle to surviving a 6,000-strong onslaught on the Battle of Uchide no Hama. She could only imagine the fury on Mr. Fujimori's face when he read how she defied Lord Yoshinaka's orders to retreat and beheaded Onda no Hachiro, a strongman of his time.

The essay ended at around 500 words, half of the quota. Combined with how it said nothing about Oda Nobunaga, this would've garnered her an instant F.

"_Sensei told me the brain is but another muscle to stretch… I must not fail him at any cost!" _Tenko was no star student, but intellect was an important facet of Neo-Aikido. A Heroine of Justice must sharpen her mind on the whetstone of books in addition to the rest of her body. _"A brain without a skull is easily crushed, a skull without a brain... is simply grabbed as a prop for overly-dramatic theater kids; wise words from Sensei."_

Regular Aikido, as taught by Morihei Ueshiba, emphasized peace and harmony with one's self and even the opponent, redirecting their chi to a path that harmed no one. Neo-Aikido, as Tenko and Sensei coined it, is a pragmatic art: force is necessary to enforce peace and harmony, neutralizing negative chi with positive, stronger chi. In fact, the first lesson was to channel your negative emotions into a giant ball and throw it away as far as you can to release them.

"_Iinchou _Ryugamine-san," As she was about to leave, Taro Mochizuki limply raised his hand, catching the class' attention. "Before you leave, can I make a suggestion?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"Recently, a few guys tried to nab me near the bicycle park. Two guys came out of nowhere, tied my hands and dragged me to their van. I only got away because their car got stuck in mud and I managed to break out in time."

Gasps and winces filled the room. Tenko went back to her seat, leaning closer to Taro to hear more. Her arms moved to a grappling position should he think of groping her.

"Oh, God... were you hurt?" Mikado Ryugamine, the average-looking class representative, spoke up. "Did you catch a glimpse of their faces? Or their clothes' colors?"

"Apart from these, not really." He showed the marks the kidnappers' handcuffs left in his hands. "They wore ski masks when they tried to catch me, and I didn't notice what they wore that night. One of them asked me whether I saw the Black Rider, though."

No one made a sound, except the class next door murmuring. Mouths dropped at the mention of the Rider, and Mikado leaned in, eager to hear more.

"_The Black Rider? That was just a myth spread by a male troll trying to scare people according to Sensei..." _Mochizuki's story reminded her of a strange sight: she was out for a midnight jog when a pitch-black motorcycle zoomed past her. The only fragment of the blur she saw was a yellow helmet. These matched up with most sightings of the-

No, those were her eyes plus her preconceived biases playing tricks on her. Sensei can never be wrong.

"_Iinchou _-san, I propose a network where we can share our whereabouts with each other when one of us gets attacked. Make a list of phone numbers, and coded words that can inform whether we're being mugged or kidnapped."

"Not a bad idea." Anri Sonohara's eyes never left her novel, yet her ears picked up what was being discussed. "But I think we need to discuss that plan more…" Some nodded their heads.

"We need unique codewords that stick out," Minato Yoshino added. "I suggest 'jackalope' when a creep tries to grab us!"

"Jackalope's too long, we need a shorter word. I suggest 'jackpot'!"

"That's exactly what a kidnapper would say. "

"What's wrong with 'jackalope'? Can you suggest a better one?"

"When you say 'jackpot', you put up a flashing sign in you saying "KIDNAP ME" in all-caps! You're encouraging his crimes!"

"If you'd ask me, you look deeper at it, it can mean both ways. Jackpot could also mean it's a good time to run, or even catch the criminal in action."

"I don't think kidnappers care about context or subtext. Not when there's ransom money to be made."

"It's just a word, guys. Sometimes, at the end of the day, that's all it is."

While the discourse around codewords slowly got heated, the word hit Tenko. "Jackalope. Jackalope… jack and elope?" Her lips pursed, locking her arms to resist grabbing Yoshino. "Are you in favor of bride kidnapping, you misogynistic monster?"

"That's just brilliant wordplay! For real, I don't support that barbaric tradition, Chabashira-chan." Minato laughed along with a few others. "Where'd you get that idea from?

"Nah, she'll be safe," Shusaku quipped. "I don't know any man who'd want her as their wife! Imagine coming out of her womb as a male!"

Most of the boys (and some girls) broke out in laughter. Mikado chuckled to himself, and Anri put down her book, fixed her glasses, and started writing her essay.

"You wouldn't exist in this world without us women!" Tenko fumed, clenching her right fist. "Your mother should have used the hanger!"

"And your dad should've pulled out as early as he could!" One male couldn't help but jeer back.

Laughter erupted across the room; even Shusaku joined in the chorus that echoed through their floor. Tenko smiled at herself, landing a solid verbal blow against a degenerate. Mikado slammed his chair, causing the laughter to stop. "Chabashira-chan, Shusaku-san, talk civilly or I will go the princip-"

"Don't stop me!" Mikado relented and backed away, not risking getting hurt. "You men are all the same! Is women's suffering nothing more than a big joke for you to laugh at?!"

"Listen to me, Chabashira-chan," Yoshino reasoned. "It's just a joke! I just donated to a breast cancer charity recently!"

"For me, though?" Shusaku's grin widened to the extent that it reached his ears. "Absolutely."

"You overcompensating degenerate, I'll punish you for this!" Tenko raised her arms in combat position, her body telling her to punish Yoshino, Shusaku, and their fellows. Two boys ran to her back to hold her, Mikado gestured at them and her to stop in which the two did, and Shusaku's grin turned to shock. Adrenaline flooded her veins and rage clouded her eyes.

Before her legs barreled to the degenerate males' side and her arms hurled them across the room, Sensei's words rang in her mind: _"A Heroine of Justice cannot waste all her energy against one enemy." _Tenko held her chest and felt her breath for a minute before walking out, slamming the door behind her.

Sensei shared a story about a man living in a moth-infested room. Hours passed as the man swatted the moths one by one, only for another to take its place and fly around, annoying him more. Exhausted at the whole order, the man opened the door to get water and all the insects left in an instant. His main problem, Sensei taught, resolved immediately by walking out the door.

"Are we still gonna talk about the emergency network?" Mochizuki was the last person she heard talk before she left.

* * *

"Ờng Đoàn... thưỡc cửa băn…"

"I can understand Japanese a bit. No need to go hard on yourself, it takes time to learn Tiếng Việt."

"Thank you."

Name: Đoàn Bảo Hoàng.

Age: 41.

Blood type: O+.

Date of Birth: August 9.

The young pharmacist looked at the Vietnamese transient across her table. A week ago, he knocked at Yagiri Pharmaceuticals' door with his resume in hand. Fearing deportation by Japanese authorities, he asked for shelter, a steady-income job and nothing else. Having won three kids after a long custody battle prompted him to do whatever it took to keep them from starving.

Even if it meant tasting experimental pills that could repair or melt his internal organs. Swallowing the blue pill, Đoàn's face turned blue and his limbs started to twitch. Drool spilled from his mouth and his twitching grew into trembling.

"Mr. Đoàn... are you fine?" Her words went through her respirator mask to no response. "Hello?" His eyes rolled up and he fell to the padded floor, cushioning him. "Boss… he'll hurt himself more!"

"Subject NFY-117's vitals are stable." A female voice came over the room's intercom. "We never abort an experiment until all relevant data is collected."

"But..."

"Wait for further instructions."

A few seconds later, Mr. Đoàn's breath grew heavy, panting as his muscles flailed around like a puppet held with shaky hands. Between his jerky movements were times where his limbs froze on place before twitching again. His tight chest stiffened his respiratory muscles, preventing him from exhaling with mouth agape.

"_I'm incredibly sorry, Mr. Đoàn… I didn't know this pill induces convulsions!" _Trying and failing to hold them back, Seiko's eyes began to swell while her lungs grew stiff. Part of her wished she had topiramate with her to calm his nerves even if it meant removal from her job. A good night's sleep after causing his seizure wasn't possible; if it was, it's undeserved.

"An experimental serum will be delivered to the room after a brief period of time. Inject it into the subject's spinal cord once it arrives."

"How long?" As the intercom finished speaking, Mr. Đoàn muttered, having regained control over his vocal cords. "Don't worry about me…" His tongue wasn't damaged, thank God, and he teetered his legs to prove his tremors were gone. "This wasn't so bad, dear."

"Boss, is the experiment over?" Seiko sighed, relieved at how he's conscious again. Seizures didn't typically last for more than five minutes from her experience. "I need to take my medication… or-"

Mr. Đoàn drooled again. Mr. Đoàn trembled again. Mr. Đoàn struggled to breathe again.

His suffering began again.

"I'll… be ok-" His words were cut short by another bout of seizure. Saliva kept oozing from his mouth; should it travel upward, it'll go straight inside his nostrils and into his lungs, causing him to aspirate. Worst comes to worst, he'll suffocate on his own spit and die, his body thrown to the incinerator, and another hapless jobseeker becomes Subject NFY-118.

"_Mr. Đoàn has children… who'll be sad when he disappears…" _Seiko thought a spoon may come in handy, but cold, hard facts squashed it like an afterthought erasing the previous. Hard objects placed in the convulsing patient's mouth only break their teeth or damage their gums, making everything worse. _"There has to be a way!"_

There was a way. It wouldn't snap Mr. Đoàn from his seizure, but it would alleviate his pain somewhat. She took off her lab coat and crumpled it to a small pillow.

"Ms. Kimura, stop whatever you're doing now and take notes!" The intercom snarled as he placed her coat under the man's head. "Do not interfere with the experiment!"

"I'm not interfering! I'm keeping Mr. Đoàn alive!" She tilted his body to the right, allowing him to breathe easier. "You'd want him alive... for more experiments, right?" After the deed was done, she returned to the table and began jotting down her observations.

No response came from the intercom. She expected verbal thrashing and a threat of firing, knowing full well she broke laboratory protocol. Security personnel might be rushing to where she was to hold her down for further instructions. The next day, she might not even be allowed back in at the lab.

But she didn't care. The impulsive act came about from her as if it were her heart beating or her sudoriferous glands producing sweat. A man was convulsing because of her, thus she was even more responsible for his safety. Saving a life breathed away most of her fear and anxiety.

After putting her pen down, an attendee came into the room and placed a clean syringe at her table. Inside was a light-blue liquid, bubbling to show it was just newly-synthesized. Boss' order repeated itself in her mind. "_Inject it into the subject's spinal cord once it arrives."_

Holding the syringe in her gloved hand, doubts surrounded her. Mr. Đoàn's seizures began to subside for a while, though she knew it'll come back. Will it improve his condition or even cure it in some way? Or will it be a lethal injection putting him out of his misery? She didn't take her chances, not with the pill she gave him earlier. Throwing the syringe at the floor and leaving the room was tempting.

Seiko closed her eyes, injected it at Mr. Đoàn's spine, and hoped for the best. Minutes later, he found out he could move his arms again. His muscles no longer twitched, and his breath became normal again. The attendee wiped his mouth of saliva and carried him outside.

Mr. Đoàn never got to thank her. It might take a while before she saw him again.

"Ms. Kimura, please come to the Main Office at once." With no time to contemplate what happened, Seiko carried her notes and headed to the office. Whatever comes out of her meeting, she'll try to come to terms with it. Saving Mr. Đoàn wasn't something to regret.

Removing her mobcap gave her pale gray hair room to flow around in the cold air in the Main Office. From company research, she learned that Yagiri Pharmaceuticals' offices had specialized air purifiers installed that kill 99.25% of contaminants. Award plaques and certificates adorned the top shelf just above the CEO's seat. In the bookshelf to her left were MSD manuals, medical technology journals, and strangely enough, a sushi cookbook. Emblazoned just above the top shelf was a painting of Izanagi and Izanami pointing the spear at the waters that would be the Japanese islands.

"You're quite the paramedic, Ms. Kimura. You thought on your feet and assuaged Subject NFY-117 before complications developed." Namie Yagiri preferred a semi-formal look: a long, white lab coat over her green turtle and dark red miniskirt. Her long dark brown hair's tips touched the plastic cup she drank espresso from.

"Thanks a lot, boss.." Seiko smiled back at her compliments. "I did what I felt I had to do."

"Only problem..." Namie finished her drink and threw it straight into the wastebasket. "I didn't hire you to be one."

"He- he had a seizure… I had no choice but to help him…" Seiko bit her lip, her mask saving face by covering her mouth. There were no good reasons to lie to her boss four days after her first day at work.

"We have protocols installed to ensure the longevity of our experimental group. Should any of them die… We make mistakes from time to time." Namie's eyes narrowed a bit as if she was a science teacher talking about ionic bonds to a struggling student.

"Am I wrong to ease Mr. Đoàn's pain? Do- do- do you want me to say sorry?" She was sure her boss' answer would be a blunt 'Yes'. Pushing the issue further will get her a stern talking-to and even a negative review at her employee page. Perhaps a quick 'That'll never happen again' can calm her down.

"Where did you get that idea? I complimented you earlier; why do you need to apologize?" Namie laughed, surprising Seiko, "Come to think of it, I actually want to treat us to Russian Sushi this week. Ever tasted their fugu sushi?"

"No, not really… I've got a strict diet to adhere to, so I can't just eat... anything."

"That's unfortunate, fugu sushi is their best in my opinion. Too bad I can't get my brother to love it." The CEO pouted, her voice suddenly becoming wistful at the mention of her brother. "Take it from a budding chef: a top-line dish requires top-line preparation." Her voice returned to normal. "Skin the fugu fish, remove its eyes, and gut it. But unless you're a pro, never, ever, handle it."

Anxiety gripped Seiko's throat. She knew why: pufferfish venom was highly toxic when consumed, or pricked by its spikes. After ten minutes, the mouth becomes numb and tingling starts. Eventually, paralysis sets in, shutting down the victim's lungs as they suffocate to death. There was no antidote once symptoms show.

"What you did was equivalent to petting a fugu fish. Inexperienced hands may yield lethal results." Namie's voice grew stern, her eyes zeroing in on Seiko's. "I'll let that slide, but you've been warned."

"Mr. Đoàn was no fugu fish!" Seiko insisted. "I know you're my superior… and I have no room to talk back… but he was human as you and I!"

"He could've bitten you in that state. Take it from my experience." Namie sighed. She didn't show any emotion about Mr. Đoàn, but Seiko felt scolded by a teacher.

"He's still not a fugu fish."

* * *

"I regret nothing about what I did. Let's stop fighting and talk!"

"You could've landed yourself in detention again!"

"You should thank me for stopping just in time!"

"There are many better ways!"

Sparring and exercise allowed Tenko to vent her anger. Her long, tied-up hair fluttered with the wind and her pinwheel bow slightly spun when she jogged across the school track, stopping half-way to rest. Running up Sensei's mountaintop dojo as practice led her to outpace most of her class and be its third-best runner. Seeing the envious faces of degenerate males motivated her to excel more in athletics.

The girls' locker room, however, stoked it. Instead of building each other up, her fellow girls spread wild rumors about who's having sex with whom and fawn over Raira's football MVP who saw them as living dolls and nothing more. She was the odd girl out in the gossip scene where she'd launch into a spiel about her latest Neo-Aikido technique rather than entertain secrets. Or be the talk of discussion where her antics get mocked or lauded, depending on what one thought. Wiping the sweat off her face, she shut out the chatter around her and walked to her locker.

As the school allowed students to bring their own gym clothes, this was Tenko's day; she got to bring her favorite training outfit: a blue, double-breasted crop top with a white _seifuku _flannel collar and bow in its center. Matching it was a heavily-frilled skirt and knee-high socks she thought would attract the fairest sex.

Time to make Sensei proud. Before that, a quick hot pot and sushi meal from Hanamura's was in order. While not up to par with Russian Sushi, the small restaurant - the only branch it had - served the juiciest beef udon in the whole city, and their own sushi wasn't half-bad. She made a habit of buying takeout to run back to school or the dojo without being late and having to avoid the head chef she heard gross rumors about. Applying alcohol to her hands and brushing vigorously after eating helped ward off the toxically-masculine energy that chef's food emanated.

The wind's cold breeze soothed her skin and guided her path towards the diner. Far from jackhammers and noisy cars, this particular street calmed whatever rage she felt earlier in the day. It helped that there weren't a lot of degenerate males that frequented it; moms carrying their babies in strollers and female workers and students were more common.

In fact, this whole street exuded a feminine aura. Cosmetics store branches like KATE Tokyo and Revlon competed for customers in the area, and GyaruChan's magazine store proudly displayed Junko Enoshima's envied body wearing their latest line. The girls-only Shiranui High School was a block away, near the women's gym she frequented. She felt Venus' energy wash over her and replenish her stamina enough to impress Sensei later.

"Hello? " A male voice called out to Tenko from a distance. The good vibes she felt evaporated, and her fight-or-flight instincts kicked into gear.

"Get your hands off me, or swear to God I'll throw you all the way to Okinawa!" As Sensei warned, her chi started to drain faster the closer the male approached her. He was a teenager with short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes. His yellow _shibori _-dyed shirt looked stupid for him, and Tenko itched to rip it up before unleashing her Neo-Aikido on him.

"Seiji… what are you doing here?!" There was a degenerate male who wore it in class - once before he never showed up again. He didn't have a weightlifter's physique, but his arm could knock her down if he landed a punch. Typical for his subspecies of degenerate male, maybe he hung out with gangers and harassed girls for fun. Or loved to peep on girls' toilets from a small window.

"Ms. Chabashira, I'm not here to harm you!" He put his hands in the air, hoping to de-escalate from a potential brawl. "I just want to ask you something, and I'll be on my way!"

"Do it quick! I need to run back to school!" Tenko raised her voice, looking at her watch. Only 20 minutes before Sensei's spar.

"Have you, uh, by any chance, seen a girl with a scar here?" He pointed at his neck. "For weeks, I've been looking for her in this city. I don't think you can miss anyone with a scar in their neck."

"_A girl? With a scar?!" _Tenko glared at Seiji, stretching her hands in front of her. He didn't show obvious signs of being an abuser; then again, Sensei taught her most men didn't. That girl must've escaped from his toxic environment, and a Heroine of Justice would betray her duty to return the victim to her captor.

"I'd like to add: I didn't put that scar on her!" Seiji shivered, raising his hands to their very top. "I'm being honest! Please don't hurt me!"

Tenko knew how and when men lie. They blinked their eyes often, they paused for too long before they responded, and they dropped phrases like 'honestly' and 'to be honest' a lot. Seiji ticked all boxes.

They were also signs of fear. He was just afraid of the consequences, as he should be. Fear was the best weapon against abusers and similar filth.

"How can I know you didn't hurt her, huh?" Tenko wasn't going to let him off the hook easily.

"I don't hurt nor harass girls at all, alright? All I want to know is if you saw her!" Seiji pleaded, getting down on one knee to prove his honesty.

Sensei told her to keep a mental library of faces: women to save when they're in trouble, or degenerate males to track down when they're up to no good. A girl with a scar on her neck would've been hard to ignore; she'd ask who had done it to her to introduce the degenerate to a crash course in neo-Aikido.

"No, I've never seen a girl like that." Tenko shrugged, looking around should the girl slip by her peripheral vision.

"Alright. Can you at least inform me if you've met her? I'll give you my number." Seiji showed his phone and tapped his contacts. "It's 079-32-"

"Never! You will not defile my phone with your flirtatious chatter!" Tenko's hand swatted his arm, and his phone would've flown into a wall and broke apart if he didn't put it in his pocket in time. Apart from Sensei's number, her phone had no male contacts in it nor she ever wanted one. That might change when Mikado institutes his emergency network system and requires her number listed, however. She swore to mute him unless it's something important.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't bother you again!" Seiji walked away, cursing to himself. The distraction lifted, Tenko was on the move again, trying not to be late for Sensei's class while looking for signs of that scarred girl.

"_He didn't want to hurt her… or me… or did he?" _Going through the short time she and Seiji Yagiri talked, he wasn't the type of male who put those scars on that girl, nor abused other girls. He tried to keep himself calm and composed at first, and only got defensive after she pressed him. Never once did he hit or punched her. Could she have been wrong about Seiji? Was he one of the rare non-degenerate males along with Sensei?

Tenko could've gotten his number and helped him find that girl. She should've channeled her rage into something productive, as Sensei taught her. It would've been easier for the two of them, mostly her.

But she had no time to think, now that there are only ten minutes left before sparring at 3:00 P.M. Fate will decide when the two will meet again, or if they will bump into each other. Who knows? He needed to work on being less of a degenerate, for starters.

A scene was also developing in an alley to her left, one Tenko couldn't help but stop by and watch. Three girls surrounded Anri who clutched to her schoolbooks when Mikado barged in between the girls, skipping as he pushed the wind in front of him. It was obvious at first glance they were Ganguro girls; their tanned skin contrasting with light makeup gave them away. Their dyed hair and various accessories sprinkled in signaled their fashion subculture.

"_Haruko Ohara, Youko Hanada, Akie Fujimori… what are they doing here with these two?" _Beside one of the girls was an orange-haired thug with a baggy yellow hoodie, likely a voyeur seeking out his lusts. She knew the three were Raira students by their uniforms, strangely with angel wings as well.

They were the resident rumor-mongers. She heard their names come up at girls' locker talk as reliable sources for who's dating who and the latest Black Rider sighting in the city. And also secrets that accomplished nothing but ruin girls' reputations and cause division between girl groups!

What do they have on Anri? Why would they make a fellow girl uncomfortable? She couldn't move, her puppy-dog eyes conveying she needed help. Let her go to detention for being late. Tenko finalized her decision to go over there and give her fellow girls a piece of her mind about-

"What do you girls feel inadequate for so much that you take it out on this girl?" A male voice taunted. "I can't believe you fell asleep at these anti-bullying PSA's."

"What's it to you, geezer? Why do you care?" Haruko, the blonde, asked.

"Geezer? First, I'm 23. Second, I really don't, so our apathy is mutual. I can't change your minds on these facts, nor do I care to."

The black furred coat… the dark hair… the sneering grin that accompanied his barbed words…

It can only be one person. Izaya. Utter degenerate. Orihara. His face which was seared on Tenko's mind kindled again.

"_Backpfeifengesichter" _was Sensei's favorite word describing the worst of degenerate males. The kind who would swing telephone poles like baseball bats at buildings smashing walls and windows. The kind who would offer naive folks the sun, moon and stars then deliver cardboard paintings in ceilings out of their reach.

All faces badly needing fists. She lost count of how many times she woke up too early because of the clashing and crashing outside her apartment room. Or got late because the road to Raira got blocked by smashed-up cars or potholes. She chiseled her heart, soul and body everyday to get strong enough and defeat these paragons of toxic masculinity.

"Luckily, I don't have it in me to hurt young girls. It's just not my hobby." In a flash, Youko's bad dropped from her shoulder, its handle somehow snapping in two. The makeup kit rolled away from the bag, and so did her cellphone and pens. Tenko briefly heard a knife's swish before it happened.

"BACK OFF THOSE GIRLS, YOU DEGENERATE MALE!" Tenko yelled at the top of his lungs, catching everyone's attention. "DON'T MAKE ME UNLEASH MY NEO-AIKIDO IN ITS FULL FORCE ON YOU!"

"On the other hand, please do unleash your Neo-Aikido in its full force on me." Izaya smiled, his right hand taunting her.

With a loud "HIYAAAAAH!", adrenaline travelled through all of Tenko's limbs as she charged at Izaya, her hands ready to snap his spine. She was too focused at Izaya to notice the orange-haired thug walking in front of her, blocking the girls.

"Hey, girl! Whoeva y'are, this ain't nun ya biz-" His loose-fitting sweater hampered his punch, unable to hit Tenko who grabbed hold of his wrist. Stopping by and without a second thought, she tossed the guy to the ground, back-first. The thug howled in pain when his back hit the dirt with a crash.

"Cunt, you gon' regret try'na fuck with my ho!" He growled, feeling his legs around if he could stand up again. She continued her charge now the obstacle was out of her way.

Unbeknownst to her, there was an empty tin can on the ground that wasn't there before. Stepping on it, Tenko's feet skidded to a near stop, trying to regain their balance. Before she collided with the wall, she slowed her advance until she couldn't move her legs for some reason.

She looked below and saw the same orange-haired man she knocked out, grasping her legs like chains. "Get ya dutty hands off muh girl…" was all he could croak as he gasped for breath. His body bruised and stamina spent, clinging to her was his last-ditch effort for a counter-attack. Rage filling her veins, Tenko tried to kick him back with either leg, but the man's baggy clothes reinforced his arms holding her legs tight. Shaking her legs, then her entire body couldn't make the thug let go of her and she felt his arms tighten further.

"Doesn't mean I won't touch your belongings." Picking up the cellphone, Izaya dropped it and dug his foot as hard as he could on it. He did it again. And again. And again. The Ganguro Girls froze where they stood, their wide eyes and raised eyebrows transfixed at the phone crushed by. Tenko burned with anger, unable to assist her fellow girls because of the degenerate male sticking to her.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

After a few stomps, Youko's expensive phone, her symbol of conspicuous consumption, disintegrated into a shattered, useless hunk of metal and wires. The man's maniacal laughter rang in everyone's ears, boring holes in their spines, including Tenko's.

"Nah, it's not my hobby anymore. You girls should try a new one." Izaya mocked, putting his foot back in place. "Ask your sugar daddies to buy a new phone on the way out!" The Ganguro girls huddled together, fearing what he might do next. Mikado, Anri, and their blonde-haired friend stood bewildered by the whole thing.

"You degenerate swine of a man… WHAT DID HER PHONE DO TO YOU?" The neo-Aikido mistress knocked the thug out with a heavy blow to his head, freeing her from his grasp. There was no way in Hell she would let the most degenerate male in Ikebukuro escape without facing justice! A maelstrom of chi coursed through her body as she sped across the alley to throw him to the sky.

In a flash, Izaya twirled out of the way like a ballerina before Tenko went three feet near him, having flicked his knife diagonally. As he hit the brakes upon missing the degenerate, the knife's swish came up again - she was hit!. She hastily looked around her arms, chest, head to see where she was just stabbed! Was there a clinic nearby? Will a nurse stumble upon her bleeding self and save her? Is this the end of neo-Aikido?

"I give up, miss!" Izaya raised his hands in euphoria. Suddenly, Tenko's left twintail went loose, the halves of the white ribbon tying it up blown by the wind.

"You degenerate male, I swear on Sensei's name I will obliterate you!" Before Tenko made a move, the Ganguro girls surrounded him, forcing her to stay still. From their faces, they weren't happy at her heroic efforts; their cross faces surprised her.

"Hey, karate bitch! Why'd ya take my boy down instead of the asshole who just wrecked my phone?!" Youko, the brunette, shrieked.

"That was your boyfriend? Why did he get in my way?" Tenko stepped back, before looking at what the Ganguro girl meant. The thug on the ground. "No, no, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings! I'll carry your boyfriend to the clinic!"

"You're gonna foot the bill for Hiroshi-kun! We're not gonna dig deep into our pockets for you!" Akie screeched. "My dad's a goddamn lawyer!"

"We're not really rich, but there's a small clinic nearby and-" Tenko looked at her watch. 3:02 P.M. "Oh no, I'm late! I need to go!"

"Think of the opportunity cost next time, miss!" Izaya waved as the neo-Aikido mistress went on her way.

* * *

(Thank you CRImier from Discord for beta-reading this chapter! Your help is appreciated!)

Part 1 of 2; don't worry, Chapter 5 is on the way! The first had 17k+ words, so I had to split it up to two chapters to make them readable!

Some new characters and arcs are introduced; Mikan, the sensitive assitant, Tenko, the rambunctious neo-Aikido martial artist, and Shinra, the oddball surgeon!


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